


Bring An Ocean Down

by nuitdemesreves (mesohorany)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Brother/Brother Incest, Consensual Alpha/Omega heat sex, Don't Like Don't Read, Incest, Knotting, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mentions of Mischa/Evgeniya but just because it has to be a thing, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Verse, Pheromones, Rimming, This is probably the dirtiest thing I have ever and will ever write, This is so taboo it's not even legal, so much porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2019-08-26 10:05:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 133,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16679563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mesohorany/pseuds/nuitdemesreves
Summary: It was rare for two Betas to produce anything but another Beta or an Omega, but there Mischa was, a dominant force on the tennis court by age eight, strong as a bull, flame in his dark eyes. Then, when Mischa was barely ten, Sascha came along, little squalling towhead in Irina’s arms, moon-eyed. An Omega. AKA Sascha invites Mischa to the Maldives for ten days of sun, surf, and bromance, but a little storm comes along and messes with their picture-perfect vacation. Complications ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmmyBelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyBelle/gifts).



> As always, I must warn you: this is INCEST. This one hundred and ten percent did not happen. Don't like, don't read.
> 
> Wow, so I don't even know what to say about this one. I had never even spent time in the OmegaVerse before reading "Heat Wave" by the very talented Lady Snow, and the obsession just kind of crept up on me. I don't know a TON about A/B/O dynamics but I do know that this is a universe you can kind of make your own, which really appeals to me. I don't do mpreg and I don't do ruts, but I do knotting, and I do heats. Boy do I do heats. I have NO idea how offspring work in A/B/O world but I do think it's likely that two Betas wouldn't produce an Alpha normally, and they would be confused as to how to go about raising an Alpha and an Omega together. It seems pretty obvious that incest bonds/attractions wouldn't normally occur, but hey, what do I know, right? ;)
> 
> So yeah, I don't really know what I'm doing, but please bear with me? :D I had a LOT of fun writing this and I think it's going to be pretty long as my outline could keep it going for quite some time - we'll see.
> 
> I would like to thank EmmyBelle for encouraging me to write and post this - thank you, lovely. All for you.
> 
> Title taken from Pteryla, by Novo Amor. What a lovely, complicated little tune. Just like I hope this story will be.

Sascha said vacation and then he said the Maldives and then he said _I don’t want anyone else to come_ and Mischa felt his entire body shift. It had been far too long since he and his baby brother had spent much quality time together; since he had gotten married he had detected an alteration in their relationship, although he couldn’t pinpoint the _why_ ; he could just pinpoint the _different_. Sascha would never come out and say it because he was far too sensitive of Mischa’s feelings to be antagonistic about something as serious as a marriage partner but he didn’t like Evgeniya, always turned cold when she entered the room. Mischa couldn’t understand it; Evi had certainly never _done_ anything to Sascha, but he always had the underlying suspicion that Sascha knew that Mischa didn’t feel quite – whole with her, and here resentment was born. Going into it Mischa had been aware that his Alpha nature would never be quite fulfilled by Evgeniya’s Beta, but he liked her enough to overlook that little detail, and he’d felt pressure on all sides to lock something down and so after two years of dating he’d asked her to marry him. At his age it was easier than starting over with someone new, and the nagging insistence of his parents had ceased immediately when she’d showed off that ring. Sweet relief, except it wasn’t.

_You’ll never be able to give us grandbabies if you spend all your time with Sash._

Now Mischa leaned over Sascha’s bare shoulder to squint at the screen of his Mac, drowning in the pure ultramarine blue of the photo splashed before their eyes. “Baros?”

“Yes. We’ve been there before, remember? I was just little and you were like fifteen. I got stung by a jellyfish and you peed on me to stop the pain.”

Mischa laughed out loud. “Like I could forget.” _Mischa, it hurts_. “According to the good people of Google, it looks like it’s good for…snorkeling, honeymoon, and…’romantic place’?”

Sascha waved him off. “The snorkeling in Baros is the best in the Maldives. ‘Romantic place’ means ‘seclusion’ and fuck if I’m going to have paparazzi in my face during the off season.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Mischa put his hand on the nape of Sascha’s neck, kneaded; Sascha shut his eyes and rolled his shoulders back and groaned. “You sure Olya isn’t going to track you down? You allowed to go anywhere without her explicit permission?”

Sascha snorted. “As I keep telling the world, we are not dating. She likes to travel, she has nothing else to do. Dad is very clearly trying to set me up with her, so he keeps buying her plane tickets.”

“It is very clearly not working,” said Mischa, and the pressure of his fingers intensified. “Picky Sascha. No one will ever be good enough for you.”

“Fuck off. You hate her, don’t even play.” Sascha turned his head, grinned lazy at Mischa, knowing. “She’s not going. This is my party, and you’re the only one invited. Mum and Dad can’t throw a hissy because Evgeniya has that pretty ring on her finger, so I’m not keeping you from anything.”

“Next it’ll be me keeping you from bonding with Olya.” Mischa scraped his fingernails up through Sascha’s shower-dripping curls, clenched his fist briefly before he backed off. “Are they on you about that?”

“Not yet. Not explicitly.” Sascha cracked his neck. “You’re their best hope for grandbabies right now, so I think they’re satiated for the time being.”

“We’ll see.”

“We will. But I’m planning for us to be on that plane before anyone can say fuck all to either of us, so it doesn’t matter. When can you leave?” Sascha was clicking through flights now, ignoring the buzz of his phone at his side; Mischa glanced down and registered that it was Marcelo. He was always heavily present around this time of year, wanting to be available whenever Sascha needed him.

“Whenever. Tomorrow, if you want.” The thought of Marcelo made Mischa press his palms back into Sascha’s shoulders, automatic possession.

“Your wife won’t be mad?”

“Evgeniya,” said Mischa gently, “is going back to Voronezh to be with her family for a few weeks. She needs a break from tour life, too.”

“And you don’t want to go with her?”

“Alexander.”

“Okay, okay.” Sascha raised his hands, white flag unfurling. “Day after next okay with you? Early flight, and we can nap and drink on the beach when we get there?”

“That’s perfect.” Mischa pushed at Sascha’s tension knots, chin at the top of his head. “What else is there to do? Drink, snorkel? Sleep?” 

“What more could you possibly want to do on vacation?” Sascha grinned that sleepy grin, vulpine. “Relaxing on some of the most beautiful islands in the world isn’t enough for his majesty?”

“Fuck yourself, insolent.” Mischa cuffed him on the back of his head, stretched his arms so his t-shirt scraped up over his hips. “Yes, I would love to go with you, Sash. You’re welcome.” 

“Thank you, Mischa.” Sweet mocking tone, but Sascha was grinning. “Seriously, I’ve already got us a place, so I’m glad you agreed. I’m really excited for this, Meesh. It’s been a long time.”

“I know. Too long.” Mischa bent low again, pointed at one of the flights on the page. “Six am. Can you do it?” 

“Easily. Give me coffee and we’re good to go.” Sascha booked it with a series of clicks, leaned back in his chair when the green checkmark of success appeared upon the page. He raised his right arm over his head, worked out the muscle that had been plaguing him since Basel, and Mischa turned his head and caught a whiff of his scent and blinked.

“And you? Are you good to go?”

“Yes,” said Sascha, easily. “I’m bringing enough to get me through the first half of the week. That’ll be more than enough time for me to make it back home.”

Mischa arched a brow, started to protest, but Sascha sliced off his words, temperate but resolved.

“I’ve got it planned perfectly, Meesh, I’ve been doing this for a while now. It’ll be easier for me to enjoy my vacation if I stop taking my meds for a few days. Hard to get properly drunk on those things.”

Mischa made a face. “Promise me.”

“I promise.” Sascha held out his big vein-roped hand, pinky up, and Mischa locked their little fingers with a grin, childhood reminiscence. “I’m actually okay at taking care of myself, you know. As hard as that is for you to believe.”

“Yeah, you say that now, when you’re coherent,” said Mischa, and Sascha grinned.

“If I’m not coherent, you won’t be, either,” he said fairly, and Mischa winced.

The truth was that he knew exactly why Irina and Alex had been so dogged about him finding a mate. His parents were both Betas, had married quite young and were very happy together, but they had been shocked when their eldest son was born an Alpha. It was rare for two Betas to produce anything but another Beta or an Omega, but there Mischa was, a dominant force on the tennis court by age eight, strong as a little bull, flame in his dark eyes. Then, when Mischa was barely ten, Sascha came along, little squalling towhead in Irina’s arms, moon-eyed.

An Omega.

Mischa knew that Alex and Irina were concerned about the level of their sons’ closeness because of the castes within which they had been born. When Sascha had started presenting with the first signs of his heat he had been fourteen and Mischa twenty-three and Mischa had smelled him from two floors down and gone absolutely wild. Tearing up the stairs to Sascha’s room, black-eyed and salivating, _feral_ , and he’d slammed the door open to find his little brother shirtless and trembling on his bed, breathing heavy through his teeth, pale-knuckled, radiating musk. Beautiful, and it wasn’t even a true heat but he smelled so goddamned good and Mischa was losing his mind.

In a thin scared voice Sascha said,

“Mischa?”

And Mischa had stood there rasping in his chest, stomach clenched from want, hard as granite for the distinct Omega scent, toes bending painful in his sneakers as he fought his screaming nature. _This is your brother this is Sascha you Do Not Get To Touch Him_ , his rational brain was screeching, but his cock was pulsing and his blood was hot as flame and he had to walk away _now_ or he was going to lose it.

Behind him, Alex’s voice – “ _Mikhail_ ,” and Mischa had turned animal-eyed to his father and breathed out through his nose and whatever Alex had seen had worried him enough to grab his eldest son by the upper arm and heave him bodily from the room. Sascha’s voice behind them cried, “Wait, no,” because he was terrified and confused and Mischa was always the one who helped him through things he didn’t understand and he just wanted his brother, his protector, his best friend, but Mischa was mad for lust, for the pungent aroma of the Omega, and right then he couldn’t even remember his own name.

“Sash, it’s okay,” called Alex through the door. “Stay inside, I’ll be in in a minute. Mischa, get out of here, what’s wrong with you? That’s your _brother_.” 

Mischa had looked at him blank-eyed, dope-sick from the smell, and then the word _brother_ punched him on the bridge of his nose and he blinked, pitched his head ferociously side-to-side to wipe his brain, reason flooding back to him. 

“Dad, I’m sorry, I don’t – ”

“Your brother is getting a heat,” said Alex, firmly. “You need to get out of here until he comes out of it, or learn to control yourself. Go. Now.”

So Mischa had turned on his heel and sprinted away, disorientation and worry twisting in his stomach, still breathing in Sascha’s scent, so strong for an initial heat. He shouldn’t have been so cripplingly affected by this, he was twenty-three and he’d fought himself successfully around Omegas in full heat before, had learned to control the instinct as best he could. But inexplicably Sascha’s scent was druglike to him, enticing him, pure perfect weedsmoke to a stoner. Even in his fugue he was lucid enough to understand that this was not a normal occurrence between blood relations.

So he’d stayed away, put up at a hotel room for a couple of days, masturbating furiously without allowing himself to think about why his body was so worked up, spending extra hours on the court playing matches and pounding at the ball machine to erode his frustrated bewilderment until finally Sascha called him and asked him to come home. He hadn’t known how much he’d missed Sascha’s voice until he heard it keening in his ear, plaintive. 

“Mischa, where are you? Dad told me you had to leave, that you were fucked up – ” 

“Dad said fucked?” Mischa laughed despite himself.

“No,” admitted Sascha, and Mischa was pleased to hear the wave of amusement in his tone. “He said it was something to do with my heat. I have a smell, or something, I think. I’m sorry, Mischa, I didn’t mean to mess you up, I don’t know what’s going on.”

Mischa could have cried; his Beta parents had no idea what they were dealing with, having one Alpha and one Omega for their sons. “I’ll be home soon. Do you feel better?”

“Yes. Normal. Just tired.”

“Okay. Hang tight, kiddo. I’ve got you.”

When Mischa had arrived at home he’d found Alex and Irina waiting for him in the doorway and he had hung his russet head in pure chagrin and Irina had wrapped him up and kissed his head and smoothed his collar down. 

“It’s okay, Mischka,” she murmured, quiet. “None of us were ready for that. We’ve already got him on suppressants. That won’t happen again.”

That night Sascha had slipped slick-sly into Mischa’s room and curled up on his side in bed with him and looked at him with sad sad eyes. 

“Are you mad at me?”

Mischa propped up on his elbow, stunned. “Of course not, Sascha. Why would you think that?”

“Because I made you lose control.”

“Oh, _solnyshka_.” Mischa drew Sascha in, stroked his curls from his porcelain forehead. “It wasn’t you. It was your hormones. Apparently I’m shit at keeping a leash on myself. Your heat – did Dad explain it to you?”

Sascha nodded. “Kind of. I did a lot of research on the internet. I know what happened.”

“Okay.” Mischa was relieved; Sascha was close, close, close in the dark and Mischa had not forgotten the scent of him, all sex, the call of his slick. He couldn’t explain it, not now, not when it was so fresh. “I’m not mad at you. You did nothing wrong. It’s fucked up that two Betas had an Alpha and an Omega.”

Sascha chuckled in the dark. “They don’t have a clue, do they.”

“Not an inkling.” Mischa kissed Sascha’s sweaty forehead. “You smelled – perfect, and I couldn’t control myself. Not a good combo.”

“They put me on that medication, the stuff to stop my heats. It’ll save you a lot of trouble.” Sascha smiled, placed his hand on Mischa’s shoulder, light as he ran fingers down his arm. “I just won’t take them if we ever have to play each other in a match.”

“You had better, brat.” Mischa’s heart was beating entirely too hard; he breathed. “You should get some sleep. You need to rest after that ordeal. Heats are draining.”

“Eh. I’m good.” Sascha yawned, contrary to his words. “Can I stay with you? I missed you.”

Mischa hesitated. They did this sometimes, when Sascha had nightmares, or when they stayed up late talking and fell asleep where they lay, prone and content. “Sure. But you need to sleep.”

“I will,” said Sascha, and he closed his eyes and snuggled close and Mischa tried not to scent him for whiffs of leftover pheromones but he couldn’t help it. Eventually he dozed and when he woke up he wished he didn’t remember his dreams.

In all fairness, looking back, Mischa could understand precisely why his parents had been so overly bothered with their relationship. If Alex hadn’t intervened when he did Mischa might have fucked Sascha into the floor regardless of the matching blood that ran through their veins, and what a predicament _that_ would have been.

Now Sascha was looking at Mischa in a way that said he knew exactly what kind of flashback Mischa had just had, and his expression was gentle.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m just fucking with you, seriously, Meesh. I’ve got how long I can go without them almost down to the minute by now. You don’t have anything to worry about. I’ll bring an extra day’s worth, just in case.”

He didn’t say _if it would make you more comfortable_ , didn’t say _if you need me to_ because that would have implied that Mischa was always just one of Sascha’s heats away from relinquishing control, and they didn’t talk about that, only made vague joking references and shrugged it off and tried not to dwell on what might have been.

Mischa sighed, tried to smile.

“I know you know,” he said. “I trust you. We’re good. And now you know what we need to do?”

Sascha lifted one furry blonde eyebrow. “Uh, it’s officially the off season, so…drink?” 

“Pack,” said Mischa firmly. “And sure, what the fuck, we can drink. Come on.”

*

Per Sascha’s wishes, they were able to get to the airport before anyone could say fuck-all to them. They’d been staying at his flat in Berlin; after the tour finals Mischa had left London with him without really telling anyone – even now, years in the future, they were still suffering residual guilt from the time their parents had spent hounding them about their closeness. Mischa called Evgeniya to tell her what was up the day before they left and she did nothing but wish them a cheery farewell, _see you when you get back, babe_ ; meanwhile, Olya was blowing up Sascha’s phone and he was blatantly ignoring her.

“You really should answer the poor girl,” said Mischa gently, as he watched Sascha click out of his messages without responding for the third time that day. They were strolling through the airport in pursuit of their gate and Sascha was very obviously exasperated.

“Mischa, she’s an Alpha,” he said flatly. “She wants my fame and she wants my heat so she can bond with me and lock my shit down. I can spot her intention from a mile away, even if Dad can’t.”

“Oh, I think Dad can spot it,” said Mischa carefully. “I’m pretty sure Dad really wants her to, as you say, _lock your shit down_ so you can stop uselessly mating with Marcelo and give him grandbabies.” 

Sascha’s eyebrows hiked past his hairline. “Dad does _not_ know about Marcelo.”

Mischa smirked. “I wouldn’t be so sure. He’s shrewder than you think he is. He’s Soviet, remember? Can’t pull the wool over their eyes.” 

“God.” Sascha shuddered, squinted up at the departure screen they were passing. “Our flight’s on time, good. I don’t want to think about Dad knowing about Marcelo. Or Mum, for that matter.”

“Fair enough.” Mischa reached out, fixed the collar of Sascha’s jacket. “Is he upset that you’re going on vacation without him so close to your heat?”

Sascha stretched luxuriantly, quirked the corners of his mouth. “He’s been more attentive than usual, that’s for sure.”

“Man, little brother. Look how _pop_ -ular you are.” Mischa made it a drag. “Everyone wants some.”

“Everyone, indeed.” Sascha gave him a look and this time he was the one smirking. “You were the first person to _want some_ , if I remember correctly.”

“Fuck off, I was young.” Mischa avoided Sascha’s eyes; his shame was a byproduct of parental hyperfocus and he hated it. “I know my limits now.”

Sascha put his hand on Mischa’s shoulder, chuckled. “Relax. I’m giving you shit. It’s my favorite pastime, remember?”

“That’s my fault. I taught you well,” said Mischa, grinning. “Coffee or booze before we get on this plane?”

Sascha checked his watch, tight on his thin wrist. “It’s seven AM. Coffee.”

So they joined the ridiculous, never-ceasing queue for Starbucks, Sascha crooking his arm automatically on Mischa’s shoulder with his bony hip cocked out to the side, sharp as an arrow tip. When they’d left Sascha’s place that morning it had been cold, cold, cold and they’d dressed for the temperature but the airport was overflowing with humanity and thus the air was torrid. 

“It’s hot,” Sascha complained, swiping hair from his bright eyes; it was getting long again. He was so lazy, it could take him months to get it trimmed, and Mischa knew he was rebelling against Olya, who complained constantly that he needed a cut. Sascha was very deliberate in his every action but you had to know him to understand what he was doing. 

Mischa knew. Better than anyone, he knew. 

“Take your jacket off, crazy,” said Mischa without venom, and Sascha pushed back from him, ripped the coat over his head. His hair stuck up like feathers, fresh-clean from the shower he’d had before bed the previous night. Reflexively Mischa tamped it down.

“We’re gonna die when we land. Forecast said eighty-six, high humidity.”

“We can Uber to the hotel and just immediately jump in the water,” said Mischa. “Get cold brew, it’ll cool you down.”

“Solid.” They’d inched up by a mere three people in the past five minutes and Sascha was antsy; he sighed and Mischa could feel his skin thrumming. “This line.”

“Jesus, calm down,” said Mischa, amused. “You haven’t even had caffeine yet.”

“Your point?” 

“How are you gonna sit through this flight with all this energy?” 

“I’ll deal with it,” said Sascha, but he was grinning. “Will you be able to sleep after you’ve had espresso?”

“Cold brew,” corrected Mischa, “and no, but that’s okay. After a few hours it’ll wear off and I’ll be dead again.”

“Ah, the circular effect of caffeine.” Sascha shook his tawny head. “Yet we continue to torture ourselves willingly.”

“Sometimes you talk like you’re a hundred years old,” said Mischa, but there was nothing but fond in his voice, and Sascha didn’t have to look at him to know it. He said, humored,

“Gee, I wonder why.”

“You grew up with a bunch of old farts, that’s why.” Mischa edged forward, craned his neck to see the board, even though life on tour had by necessity made him memorize the menu. “What if there’s no Starbucks on the island?”

“You’ll forget about it because you’ll be eyeball deep in rum punch,” said Sascha carelessly. “I have caffeine pills in case you die from withdrawal.”

Mischa looked sideways at him, smiled. “Thanks, little brother.”

“Yeah, well. You always forget em and make me miserable when you whine, so I’m saving us both some pain.” But Sascha was grinning and Mischa leaned gently sideways into him in acknowledgment.

After what felt like a century they managed to order their coffee, took it with them to their gate; their flight was set to take off in an hour so they killed time playing Grandmother’s House. Mischa liked to get complicated with it, would throw in something ridiculous so the natural flow was shaken up (“I’m going to grandmother’s house and I’m bringing an apple, a banana, a cheese plate, and Djokovic’s left nut” and so on). His primary goal in this game was forever to make Sascha laugh and he always succeeded; today was no different. Eventually Sascha had to set his coffee down because he kept choking on it from his helpless snickering. 

They passed the time pleasantly like this and by the time boarding call came they were both sufficiently caffeinated and thoroughly relaxed, ready to go. For the first few hours they stayed awake reading and listening to music and shooting the shit but caffeine wasn’t a forever magic pill and eventually they slept, woke up close to the same time, thirty minutes from landing. It was evening in the Maldives and the sun was low, brilliant clementine clouds over the sea, gorgeous. 

“This is insane, Sash,” said Mischa, as they walked laden with bags into their hotel. It was early enough in the off season that Christmas vacationers had not yet embarked upon their holidays; the concierge informed them that “sirs are very fortunate to be on our island right now” because tourist census was extremely low. It would be primarily them and the staff and the ocean for the next ten days, and that was how they liked it.

Sascha had rented the tiki hut all the way down at the end of the row, concerned about maximum privacy, but that was neither here nor there at the moment; they didn’t pass a single soul traipsing down the fortified wooden walkway to their destination and when the bellhop who had helped them with their bags bowed out of the room with a smile they were left to their own devices. Mischa went to stand on the balcony, looked down at the water and saw hundreds of colorful little fish swimming in schools beneath his feet.

“Let’s swim before dinner,” yelled Sascha from his room, and Mischa smiled.

“Come out here,” he said, and in a moment Sascha, who’d been halfway through changing into trunks, came padding out to join him. He was flushed in boxers and taller than life and he stood close to Mischa at the railing, luminous with joy.

“I’m so fucking glad it’s the off season.”

“Yeah. You’ve earned it.”

“So have you,” said Sascha loyally.

“Sure, following you around gets exhausting,” said Mischa, but he grinned when he said it; he could no more hold a grudge against Sascha for his immense success than he could for the fact that he was three inches taller: it was inevitable, genetic, Sascha was naturally more athletic and he had always wanted it slightly harder than Mischa. It was expected that his results should show this. 

“Shut up, you’ve had a good season, you won your first tournament, for God’s sake,” said Sascha, face pink, “and next year it’s gonna be better. We can keep playing doubles.” 

“I’d like that,” said Mischa, “but fuck tennis right now. Let’s get out there, the water looks like God.”

He took off inside the hut; Sascha followed him, and within two minutes they were hurtling outside, naked from the waist up, bound straight for the limitless ocean.

For a solid hour they floated in that massive pool of cerulean blue, watching the sun succumb to its bloody crimson-orange death only to be replaced by a white fingernail moon. In the Maldives the stars were a marvel and Mischa and Sascha stayed in the water long enough to watch them begin to appear, speckled gold in the indigo above. Eventually Sascha climbed out and flopped supine on his back to study the constellations; Mischa stayed in the water because it was his natural habitat, holding air in his lungs for as long as he could so he’d stay afloat, blissful.

After some time Sascha’s voice coaxed him away from his own peaceful thoughts.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” said Mischa. They’d eaten on the plane but that seemed hours ago; probably, Mischa reasoned, because it was.

“Let’s go eat,” said Sascha. “We can get in the hot tub later.”

Lazy, already in vacation mode, they didn’t bother to shower, just pulled on gym shorts and t shirts and wandered down the dock to the main quadrant of the resort. The lobby area held multiple restaurants among various other forms of entertainment and Mischa caught Sascha eyeing the arcade more than once as he scanned the welcome brochure for food options.

“Hot tub or arcade, that is the question,” he said, and Sascha grinned, pleased.

“Both. I napped too late to go to sleep at any kind of holy hour,” said Sascha. He slid a hand under his shirt, pressed against the absolute concave flatness of his stomach. “But first food.”

Mischa pinched his side, Sascha was so lean he could easily wrap his hand around the entirety of his hip. Here was where Mischa had to be careful. His mind understood that this was Sascha, this was his blood; however, his treacherous primal body sometimes only recognized Sascha as _Omega._ For the time being there were no overpowering pheromones to deal with, but on multiple occasions, like after Sascha had just heavily exerted himself or gone a day or two without showering, Mischa could smell him, the obvious underlying fragrance of a raw Omega. Mischa was ashamed of how his body reacted to this scent and often when he and Sascha played doubles together he took Alpha suppressants just to warn himself off. He never told a soul but he suspected that Sascha knew. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Sascha, too, was able to detect abnormalities in his scent, although they never talked about it.

Right now his little brother smelled like the sea, safe, tranquil. Mischa squeezed his angular hip once and drew away, wiped his face of his thought process, as he had become so proficient at doing. “Skinny bitch. What do you want?”

“Anything,” said Sascha, amicable, so in the end they decided on the quick option: burgers and fries that they could take to the observatory lounge. While they ate they watched the ocean rise and fall and listened to the waves talk and Mischa thought that moments like these were the pinnacle of his existence.

*

Island routine was easy to develop: sleep when they got tired, wake up naturally, start drinking whenever the urge struck them - and fuck it, they were on holiday, so it was usually early. They lived in swim trunks and gym shorts and often ended up falling asleep in the massive hammock suspended beside their balcony; on the third night, they succumbed to drunk drowsiness at midnight and Mischa woke at sunrise with Sascha curled like a pillbug against him, arm flung over his face, breath in his ear. Oblivious.

He smiled, wriggled up so he could breathe, cleared his throat. Sascha grunted.

“Sash.”

“Hum.”

“Wake up.”

“Uhm.”

“ _Sascha._ ”

“What.” Sascha opened tired eyes, oriented himself, realized how he was laying. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey.” Mischa chuckled through his nose. “Comfortable?”

“Yeah.” Sascha’s voice was rusty with sleep; he didn’t look the least bit ashamed. “We fell asleep out here? God, it’s hot.”

“Probably because you’re spooning me.”

Sascha laughed, little devilish burble in the back of his throat. “Sorry.”

“Move, then,” said Mischa, but there was no urgency behind his voice. Sascha gave another vague _mmm_ and withdrew his arm but he stayed curled as he was, stretched his leg so it was extended long beside Mischa’s own.

“We should hit today.”

“Are there courts on this island?” They’d brought their racquets but Mischa hadn’t done any research regarding the nearest facility; when he was on vacation, tennis was low on the list of priorities. 

“Yeah. Two.”

“You already miss it, huh?”

“Eh. Kinda. My body just needs it at this point.”

“I get it,” said Mischa. He sat up, scanned the horizon to avoid Sascha’s eyes. “Yeah, we can play. We should do it before you run out of suppressants. You’re not used to playing off them.”

“I know.” Sascha was supremely unconcerned when they talked about his heats; Mischa couldn’t understand it, he had been mildly embarrassed to discuss anything sexual with Sascha since The Incident. Somewhere deep in his chest he was aware that it was because his body chemistry was inappropriately interested in everything to do with Sascha’s heats, but he was loath to admit that to himself, even years later. “Mischa, your face.”

“What about my face?” It didn’t help that Sascha always called him out.

“Nothing. It’s fun to watch you turn red,” said Sascha, and he grinned like a sprite. “It’s not like I’m going to go into heat overnight, you know. I have four or five days after I stop taking my meds.” 

“Four or five?” Mischa cleared his throat again, tried not to sound as panicked as he felt. “You said you had it down to the minute.” 

“Four days, six hours, and thirty-six minutes,” droned Sascha, bored. “I brought enough to get me through until three days before we leave. Marcelo will be waiting for me in Berlin and you can bounce. Relax.”

“Does Marcelo have a countdown going, too?” Mischa picked at his thumbnail, smirked.

“Fuck, probably, wouldn’t you?”

“You know, Sash, my favorite thing about you is your humility,” said Mischa with a surprised shout of laughter, but when he looked sideways at Sascha his face was stoic, no trace of arrogance.

“Have you ever been with an Omega?” 

“I mean, I’ve slept with a few Omegas,” said Mischa, his cheeks bursting with rich peony color, hot.

“Your girl before Evgeniya was an Omega, right? What was her name?” Sascha was forcing Mischa to maintain eye contact. 

“Alejandra,” said Mischa, “and yeah, she was. She was on suppressants for most of our relationship, though. She didn’t want to get pregnant, which was fine with me.”

“But you went through at least one cycle with her, surely.”

“Yeah. Two.” Mischa raised an eyebrow. “I know what you’re getting at, Sash. I mean, it’s amazing sex. But we didn’t really form a bond. I think at that point I knew it wasn’t working for me, so I didn’t want to dig myself a hole.”

Sascha smirked. “Marcelo and I don’t have a bond, and he always comes back for more.” 

“Yeah, well, he’s your best friend, and Kubot is the chillest Omega I’ve ever met, so it’s the perfect situation.” 

“He’s not my best friend,” said Sascha. “I mean, he’s one of them. But you are, Mischa. Always have been.”

Mischa glowed, at last not from embarrassment. “You’re my best friend, too, Sash.”

Sascha smiled, and it was like a finger of sunshine on a cold charcoal day, pure in its brilliance. “My point is,” he said, “if heat sex is good, I mean, _good_ good, it’s plausible to have a countdown. Don’t be mad cause Evgeniya is a Beta.”

Mischa blustered. “We have a very healthy sex life, thank you.”

“Once again,” said Sascha, voice glimmering, “I’m just giving you shit. You need a Xanax to talk about this stuff, Meesh.”

“Tell me about it.” Mischa shook his head, sighed. “I’m just worried about you.”

“Why? I’m with you.” Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You never let anything bad happen to me.” 

“I try my best,” said Mischa. “We should hit sooner than later before it gets to be too hot. Come on.”

He stood up, padded gingerly across the hammock to the ladder leading to the top deck. Behind him Sascha flopped over, groaned in protest.

“Five more minutes." 

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to play,” said Mischa, looking back at him. “Get up, lazyass. It’ll be worth it.”

So Sascha dragged his gargantuan frame up the ladder behind Mischa, followed him slowly into the kitchen, watched him dig in the refrigerator for breakfast supplies. Sascha liked to watch Mischa move, liked to observe the musculature of his back as it danced and curved beneath his skin. Where Sascha was lean, Mischa was brawn; likely due to his Alpha nature he’d always been stronger, and Sascha found his body fascinating.

“Cereal?”

“Yeah, for now,” said Sascha, grinning over his blatant admiration when Mischa turned to look at him. He was fully aware of how uncomfortable he could make his brother and he tried not to abuse the power. 

They inhaled their cereal, changed into fresh tennis clothes, and set off down the boardwalk with their bags secured over their shoulders. The courts were a short distance from the main quadrant of the hotel and when they arrived, as expected, there was no one in sight. It was early in the morning but the lack of tourist life on the island continued to be astonishing; Mischa had asked the front desk how many other huts were occupied and had received a rueful reply of “three.” A total of four out of sixteen.

Both a half second off after alcohol sleep, Mischa and Sascha spent thirty minutes warming up, laughing at their mistakes, relieved to be away from the critical watch of their father. Despite the fresh hour it was sticky-hot and they were both shirtless after the first two games; Mischa had found his footing more quickly than Sascha and went up a break for 3-2. 

“Wake up, champ,” he ribbed, when Sascha passed him at the net during the changeover.

“I’m awake,” said Sascha. “You’re playing well, Meesh.”

“I’m fresher,” said Mischa. “You just got off a long string.”

“Eh. I’ve rested a bit.” Sascha shrugged. “Let’s go.” 

Mischa held; Sascha did, too, then he broke back for 4-4. Their level of play was intense but they were both enjoying themselves and it ended fittingly in a tiebreak, with Mischa scraping it out 9-7. Afterward in companionable silence they lay on the court together glugging water and - as they seemed to have spent much of their vacation thusfar - gazing up at the sky.

“Revenge for Washington, eh,” said Sascha as they settled. There was good humor in his voice and Mischa loved him for it.

“Something like that.” Mischa dug his toes into the ends of his sneakers. “Or maybe you’re distracted by being on holiday.”

“You clearly aren’t.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Mischa’s voice was light, but he was aware of every movement Sascha made. He hadn’t showered since the previous afternoon and though his scent was faint Mischa was close enough to him to catch it on the breeze. He wished he’d brought his suppressants.

“Thinking about real breakfast?”

Mischa chuckled. “Absolutely. I need hash browns in my face.”

“Me, too. I think we’ve spent enough time on a tennis court today.” Sascha coiled his knees, sprang to his feet, reached down to help Mischa up. Mischa took it, rose,

waited for his equilibrium to stabilize before he moved.

Standing together throwing their racquets and dirty shirts and towels back in their bags, they were too close for Mischa’s sanity. Sascha’s scent was hovering under his nose and he knew that his reaction was overly attentive. He’d been trying not to breathe around Sascha when he was sweaty for years but right now he was toxin sweat and unwashed armpits and heat and Mischa couldn’t shut it out. He pulled chapstick from his bag and slathered it thick on his top lip and tried to isolate the scent of coconut from Sascha’s musk. 

“Hey,” said Sascha, looking at him; he’d caught the wild expression in Mischa’s Hershey bar eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m - yeah,” said Mischa, but Sascha gave him the look he threw when he wasn’t buying it and Mischa sighed. “It’s just that you, um. I can smell you, when you’re sweating and you haven’t showered.” 

“You can - “ Sascha’s expression muddled, cleared. “Oh. OH. Mischa, I’m sorry, I didn’t think - “

“Sash, shut up, it’s not your fault,” said Mischa, mortified. “You just smell, like. Really good.”

Color blossomed across Sascha’s face; he bit his lip and dug in his bag, produced deodorant and the clean shirt he’d brought. “You didn’t take a suppressant.”

“I didn’t bring any with me,” said Mischa automatically, and then he realized what Sascha had said, that it wasn’t a question but a definitive statement. “Wait, you know about that?”

“That you take them every time we play doubles together? Yes.” Sascha’s throat was turning red; Mischa, too, felt as though he was flushing between his fucking toes. Kindly Sascha added, “I’m not an idiot, Mischa. You’re an Alpha, I’m an Omega. I know you like the way I smell.”

He uncapped the deodorant, spread it quickly on, threw the t shirt over his head. Mischa did not think he had ever blushed so hard in his life. He cursed himself mentally; he was usually so good at keeping his face straight, but when they were alone there was nothing to distract him and Sascha had the observation skill of a great horned owl.

“I didn’t think you knew, Sash. You don’t have to do that.”

 

“It’s nothing, Mischa. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” Sascha smiled at him, he was sweet now, toned down the teasing when he knew Mischa was this wrecked over something. “I’ve always known. You’re really careful around me when I’m sweaty. I put two and two together.”

Mischa groaned. “Jesus.”

“It’s okay. I promise.” 

“You’re my brother, Sash. You’re not even in heat and I - “ Mischa bit himself off; oversharing was dangerous here. _I notice your smell because it’s so goddamned good all the time_. “Anyway. I’m sorry. You don’t have to take extra precautions. I’m just really fucking attuned to your scent, for whatever reason.”

Sascha grinned. “What can I say, I’m irresistible.”

“Oh fuck off,” said Mischa, but he smiled, too. “Thank you. Really. That helped.”

Sascha shrugged. “No big. You can control yourself, you’ve been around me my whole life. But it must not feel great to um - constantly notice things like that.”

“Uh, no.” Mischa’s stomach was hot. “Let’s go eat.” 

They ate breakfast on the overlook, fluffy eggs and gigantic buttery pancakes and hashbrowns, island fruit so ripe it fell apart in their mouths, coffee and juice. Sascha was watching Mischa’s face and they both knew that he was still uncomfortable so Sascha pushed him with his foot, laughed at him.

“Stop brooding. It’s unbecoming.”

“I am not _brooding._ ”

“You totally are. Quit.” Sascha reclined back in his seat, regarded Mischa over the rim of his coffee cup. “If it makes you feel any better, I can smell you, too.”

Mischa felt his eyebrows hike in surprise. “You can?”

“Yeah. I’ve always been able to.” Now it was Sascha who was embarrassed; he looked away, out over the vastness of glass-clear blue. “When you came to my room during that first heat, you were as strong as I was. I just didn’t know what I was smelling until - later.”

Mischa didn’t realize his mouth had fallen open; he blinked and registered himself, shut it abruptly. Under his breath he said, “oh, my god.”

“Yeah. So it’s not like you’re the only one who notices - ah - changes.” Sascha was scarlet as blood. “There’s a big difference when you take your meds. The scent goes cold.”

“Is it, like,” said Mischa, and he didn’t know how to say it politely so he just did. “Distracting? When you can smell me?”

“Um, it can be,” said Sascha. “Same for you with me, I think. Like, sometimes when you don’t shower, it’s strong. Other times I can’t smell you at all. It just depends.”

“Exactly,” said Mischa. His stomach felt strange; he took a huge pull of coffee to blanket the anxiety. “Why do you think I stay away when you’re in heat?”

“I know,” said Sascha, and the crimson of his face darkened substantially. “Can you tell when I’m off my meds?”

“Uh.” Mischa chuckled. “I think the last time I was around you off your suppressants was during your first heat. You take them like clockwork. So, I guess we’ll find out in a few days.”

“That’s why you’ve been so anal about me taking them,” said Sascha, like he’d just discovered the solution to the mysteries of the universe.

“Subconsciously, I suppose,” said Mischa. “But it’ll be fine. I mean, heat scent doesn’t start until an actual heat, so it doesn’t matter. We’ll be golden.”

His eyes found Sascha’s, and they nodded firmly at each other. They’d made it almost a decade without another weird incident; they would be fine. They always were.

“It feels good to talk about this,” said Sascha. “I know you’re still ashamed, or whatever. But you don’t have to be. It’s just the way we’re made.”

“It does feel good,” said Mischa, and it was true; his shoulders felt lighter. “And it’s kind of nice to know that you can smell me, too, as fucking weird as that sounds.”

“I get it,” said Sascha gently. “I should have told you. I just kind of thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I didn’t, for a while,” said Mischa. “But I’m glad we did. Anyway now I can just straight up pill pop in front of you, so.”

“I mean, I do in front of you.” Sascha grinned, checked his watch. “Speaking of.”

He rummaged in his bag, withdrew his prescription, shook out a pill. The bottle was low and Mischa tried to calculate in his head. 

“Three left,” said Sascha cheerily, because he knew what Mischa’s crooked left eyebrow meant. “Worrywart.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Mischa drained his coffee cup. “Think we can nap after being caffeinated?”

“We can lay on the hammock and read, which is essentially the same thing,” said Sascha.

So they paid their bill and wandered leisurely together down the boardwalk. Mischa put his arm genially around Sascha’s broad skinny shoulders; Sascha let him, even leaned into him, though he was notoriously shifty about physical contact. It was good to be candid and now they both knew each other’s limitations and nothing felt embarrassing anymore. The rest of the week was going to be glorious.


	2. Chapter 2

Without incident the next few days passed and they continued their routine of doing absolutely nothing in various forms. Twice more they hit; Mischa was playing unusually well and he bested Sascha in six out of nine tiebreakers. They both took care to shower long and often, used copious amounts of deodorant. Mischa called Evgeniya every other night; they FaceTimed their parents and Marcelo a few times, played a lot of Scrabble, tore through books at lightning speed. Sascha continued to ignore Olya and every time he did Mischa watched him with a particular, silent, triumphant blaze in his eye. Everything was calm and light, tranquil as the ocean. No icebergs, no cyclones, no danger.

On the seventh day Sascha’s meds ran out; he took his last pill with breakfast and threw the container in the garbage with supreme nonchalance. Mischa didn’t know what to expect and he spent the afternoon in mild trepidation but the day passed without any variation at all, everything more or less the same, and he relaxed. He told himself he’d been stupid for worrying. Sascha was Sascha, with or without his suppressants, and there wasn’t a single thing more or less to it than that.

But they didn’t hit again, and Sascha showered both morning and evening, reapplied deodorant every two hours. Mischa caught him at it and told him to stop being overly cautious; he was a big boy, he could handle it. Sascha insisted that it was no trouble but on the ninth day they went to breakfast without jumping in the shower first and Mischa could no more smell him than when he’d just taken his daily dose. Without exertion or overlong periods of uncleanliness, there was no difference in Sascha’s scent. The confirmation was exhilarating. Mischa felt normal. Life was paradise.

So flawlessly grand, in fact, that he in retrospect was blind not to have sensed the peril ahead. 

Their last afternoon on the island was silver skies and increasingly swift winds; by the time they made their way to the main quadrant for dinner, light rain had begun to spatter the deck, wind gales escalating from annoying to fearsome. For the first time that whole week they sat inside to eat and Mischa listened to the storm roil against the window with little to no concern. They were on the ocean; things like this happened. Even when he noticed that he and Sascha were the only patrons in the restaurant, he didn’t register the deserted tables as something unusual. The island had been quiet during their whole trip and it was raining - the other occupants were probably just relaxing in their tiki huts, wanting to avoid the inconvenience of getting wet.

During the middle of the meal one of the bartenders, with nothing to do, turned the TV to the local weather station. The staff clustered around the bottom to watch and the tempo of their voices increased so much that Sascha paused in the midst of his sentence to look over, curious.

“What is it?” Mischa watched his face, interested. 

“I don’t know. They’re watching the weather.” Sascha leaned forward to try for a better look. “I don’t have my contacts in, I can’t see.”

Mischa turned to scan the restaurant, zeroed in on the TV. He couldn’t understand what was being said but the situation looked baleful, all angry red-tinted storms on the radar. What was worse was the clear concern in the body language of the staff: they were hunched shoulder to shoulder together, conversing in low worried voices.

“Uh, I can’t really tell, either,” he said, “but it looks bad. Lots of red on the radar. Is that normal here?”

“I don’t know,” said Sascha. “I don’t think so, but the weather has been weird everywhere lately. I hate storms like this.”

“I know. It’ll be okay.” Mischa patted his hand. “We can sleep in the living room if you want.” By now he was getting used to having Sascha near him when he slept; they had napped together on the hammock every day and slept on it through the night multiple times. It was nice not to have to get up and go to another room if they thought of something they wanted to tell each other and Mischa was reminded strongly of their younger years, when they spent most nights in the basement den of the Zverev home on opposite ends of the L-shaped couch, falling asleep to movies and each other’s conversation. Cozy. It felt like home to him to be so near Sascha all the time and he was struck by how much he missed traveling with his little brother.

“Okay,” said Sascha now, and he smiled. He was on his third glass of wine and his eyelids were low and he looked sweet and young folded up in Mischa’s hoodie. He hadn’t packed one of his own and Mischa had brought an extra because Sash always, always, always forgot to bring warm clothes on vacation, and he always, always, always ended up borrowing Mischa’s stuff.

“How’s that hoodie treating you?”

“Good.” Sascha smiled, cherubic. “Thanks.”

“And the wine, sans medication?”

“Amazing.”

Mischa chuckled. “I can tell. You’re cute when you’re drunk, Sash.”

“Fuck off.” Sascha threw his straw paper at him. “See, this is why I wanted to be off them for the last few days of my vacation. I’d have stopped taking them earlier, but you’d have lost your mind, so.”

He quirked an eyebrow at Mischa, eyes deviant as he observed him over the clear rim of his wine glass.

Mischa couldn’t stop himself from grinning, despite the fact that his heart bumped sharply against his ribcage and his cheeks stained pink as rose. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re a cheap date when you’re off your suppressants, anyway,” said Mischa as their waiter glided up to the table to refill Sascha’s glass. “Hey, what’s happening with the storm? It looks really bad.”

“Unseasonably bad weather, sir,” said the waiter, pushing his glasses nervously up the bridge of his straight nose. “Multiple storms from the east, one right on top of the other. Most of our other guests have already left. They wanted to get off the island before things got worse.”

“Does it look like they’re going to?” Sascha pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over his hands, anxious habit. 

“Hard to say, sir.” The waiter shrugged apologetically. “Forecasted storms often miss us completely, so this one may blow over during the night.”

“But people are leaving early?” Sascha frowned like he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to cut their vacation short. “Why would they do that if it might blow over?”

“All of our guests were scheduled to leave within the next two days. I didn’t speak to any of them personally, but if I had to guess, I would say they were trying to take precautions to avoid their flights being delayed.” The waiter’s expression made it plain that he thought this was taking caution to the extreme. “If you’d like, we can move you inland for your last night, so you aren’t directly on the water. It’s probably unnecessary, but it never hurts to be safe.”

“Oh, we don’t want to bother you - “ started Mischa, but the waiter shook his head.

“Oh, you’re not a bother at all, sir. It’s not, as they say in America, our first rodeo, and we prefer our guests to enjoy maximum comfort throughout their stay with us. We can have you transferred within thirty minutes. All we ask is that you pack your things, and we’ll do the transportation for you. We even have a golf cart with plastic covering to take you to your new room and keep you dry from the rain.”

Mischa looked at his brother. “Sash, what do you think?” 

“Yeah,” said Sascha faintly, “yeah, okay. Can we finish eating first?”

“Of course, sir,” said the waiter, and he smiled. “Take your time. We’re here all night.” 

He inclined his head and glided swiftly away, all elegance. Mischa looked back at Sascha, cocked his head. “Sash. What’s wrong?” 

For Sascha’s face, a moment ago so lush with color, had been stripped entirely of its lovely rose hue.

“He said people are worried about flights being delayed,” said Sascha on a whisper.

“Yeah, and he also looked like he thought those people were idiots.” Mischa shook his head. “It’s okay, Sash. Our flight is really early tomorrow. We’re going to get off this island exactly when we planned.”

“But - “ Sascha looked pained. “If I don’t get home within two days.”

Mischa was trying so hard not to think about it. Sascha was the one freaking out now and he was eldest, he had to stay calm, had to bring him back down. “You’re going to. Don’t worry. It’s not even a big storm and we’re leaving at nine in the morning. It won’t stop our plane.”

“How do you know?”

“Sash, you know I don’t know for sure,” said Mischa gently. “But remember what I told you. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. Okay?”

Sascha’s eyes were gigantic. Again Mischa was struck by how young he looked, alabaster-skinned, thin in his oversized hoodie. “Promise.”

“Sascha, have I ever broken that promise?”

“Never.”

“So what makes you think I’m going to stop now?”

“I don’t.” Sascha took a huge slug of his wine. “Even if it gets delayed a little, we still have time. The guy said storms always blow over here. It’ll be fine. Sorry.”

“Do you want to leave tonight? Tell me right now and we can. I’m serious, I won’t be mad.” 

Sascha wrinkled his nose. “Hell no. I want to stay. Leaving early is for quitters.”

Mischa gave him a look. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Sascha looked up, caught his eye. “ _Yes_. I swear. We’ll move inland, avoid the crazy waves, if they even happen. Then when we wake up the storm will be over and we’ll go home. It’s fine.”

“Okay,” said Mischa. “If you’re sure. We’ll stay.”

They finished eating, ran back to their hut in the rain, which was steady but not overpowering. Both Mischa and Sascha tended to live out of their suitcases on vacation and they stuffed their laundry bags in their main duffels, grabbed food from the cupboards, called the front desk. Within ten minutes a little plastic-coated golf cart had arrived in front of their door to take them to their new room. Sascha by all accounts seemed to have forgotten his earlier anxiety and he leaned on Mischa in the backseat, tracing rain down the plastic with his fingertips. Mischa had had a few drinks and he was feeling it but Sascha was loose-limbed, hazy-eyed, touchy. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said being off the suppressants made him susceptible. 

In the end they made it into the new place with only minimal water damage. It was similar to the tiki hut but more landlocked and it came with a second story, making ocean views still possible. That night, of course, it was too overcast to see much of anything but rain, the wind racing itself through plants and trees, troublemaker. Sascha stood forlornly at the window in his t-shirt; the alcohol had made him hot and he’d peeled Mischa’s hoodie off, draped it over the living room couch. He pressed his palm to the glass, sighed.

“What’s up?” Mischa was behind him, attuned; when Sascha’s mood was off he made it his mission to correct it.

“I wanted another hammock night for our last day,” said Sascha, pouty. 

“I did too,” said Mischa. “It sucks. But we can grab blankets and put on a good movie and sleep on the couch and that’ll be almost as good.”

Sascha turned from the window with his hand still anchored to the pane. His mouth was twisted and his large light eyes were sad. “Mischa, I don’t want to leave.”

Mischa couldn’t stand to see him upset, he’d never been able to tolerate Sascha’s unhappiness. “Me neither.”

“I miss this,” said Sascha quietly. “I miss you.”

Mischa almost said _you see me all the time_ but Sascha was as genuine as he’d ever seen him and it would have been futile to say that he didn’t know exactly what that meant. Evgeniya had complicated things between them; they’d never explicitly spoken about it but Mischa had caught Sascha throwing up in the bathroom the night he’d proposed to her and he’d understood from half a glance into Sascha’s eyes how upset he was. That was the last time Mischa had held Sascha in his arms, really held him, not just a quick public hug or a side embrace at the net, and after that things had been different. Sascha shouldn’t have been bothered about Evgeniya, not like that, but Mischa understood why because it was inevitable that they would be spending far less time together and that was the absolute last thing in the world that he wanted. If he was honest with himself, if his parents hadn’t gotten weird, he’d probably never have asked her out at all, but it was easy the way it was and she never questioned him about his closeness with Sascha and it just worked.

“I miss it, too,” he said, soft. “All of it. You.”

“Sometimes I wish,” said Sascha, and he stopped himself but then his courage seemed to resolve and he continued. “That you had never gotten married.”

Mischa didn’t know what to say, but he wasn’t surprised at all, and he was glad Sascha had said it because he’d needed to.

“The night I got engaged,” he said, “did you get sick because you were upset about it?” 

Sascha looked him in the eye.

“Yes. I threw up on your wedding day, too.”

Mischa hadn’t known. In the dark they were standing close and Sascha smelled like rain. Mischa wondered if there was anything else under that scent, hated himself. 

“I never knew.”

“How could I ruin your day like that?” Sascha shrugged, attempted a smile, didn’t succeed. “It was stupid. I should have been happy for you. But you didn’t look the happiest I’ve ever seen you, and that seemed wrong to me, because you’re supposed to be the happiest when you get married.”

Mischa inhaled harshly; Sascha knew him where no one else did, at the deeper corners of himself. “You were right.”

“I thought so.”

Mischa took another deep breath; he was drunk enough to be honest, too.

“I don’t want you to date Olya.”

Sascha’s smile was too big for the occasion.

“I told you I’m not.”

“I know,” said Mischa. “But just...don’t. You deserve better than that.”

“I won’t,” said Sascha quietly. “I don’t want to, anyway. But if you don’t want me to, I won’t.” 

There was emphasis on the last sentence and Mischa felt like his blood was glowing. 

“Mum and Dad,” he said, measured, “put pressure on me with Evi.” 

“I’m aware,” said Sascha. “It’s okay, Mischa. Dad blamed you for stuff he shouldn’t have. And I don’t blame you for wanting to get him off your back.”

Mischa’s mouth felt thick, full. “You really threw up on my wedding day?”

Sascha nodded, ashamed. “Yeah.”

Mischa sighed, blew out a breath, and then he stepped forward and pulled Sascha into his arms. Sascha made a tiny noise in his throat, maybe relief, maybe surprise, and his arms cane up to wrap around Mischa’s shoulders and they just held on. It had been so long since they’d properly hugged that Mischa felt himself going lightheaded and this close he could smell Sascha, really smell him, the rain and the heat sweat and the deep ingrained musk that meant he was off his suppressants. This close, the difference was obvious, and he couldn’t understand how he hadn’t scented it before.

 _Omega_.

Sascha felt Mischa seize up against him and his heartbeat tripped.

“What is it?”

“I can tell,” said Mischa gruffly, into Sascha’s neck. “I can tell you’re off your meds.”

Sascha froze; for a moment he considered backing away out of respect for Mischa’s comfort but the way Mischa was holding on alerted him to the fact that this was not the correct response. He hesitated, waited for Mischa to move, but he didn’t. So Sascha, drunk and stupid or maybe very brave, lifted one shoulder over his damp tawney head, pulled his sleeve down so his dark-thatched armpit was exposed. They hadn’t showered before dinner and he knew his scent would be strong, strong, strong.

Mischa kept one arm around Sascha’s waist but he pulled back slightly so he could look him in the eye. Shuddered for the sudden whiff, Sascha’s musk-strong pheromones curling into the air between them, and Mischa couldn’t breathe. Sascha was offering, freely giving what he knew Mischa craved, and the idea of it was too much.

For a beat they looked at each other. Sascha wasn’t sure what he was even doing but the look on Mischa’s face kept him from lowering his arm and just when he thought Mischa would run he dove, buried his face in Sascha’s armpit, _inhaled_ him like he was oxygen. The hand around his hip clutched tight and Mischa wasn’t making any noise except breath but it was ragged and Sascha could tell he was restraining himself.

He said, “Yeah?”

Mischa groaned, almost inaudible, but Sascha heard him. 

“We should,” said Mischa, mouth open against Sascha’s skin; Sascha quivered. Mischa’s scent had intensified and it was assaulting him, _alpha alpha alpha_ , forcing instability. “Not do this.”

“You’re right,” said Sascha shakily, but he didn’t move.

For several moments they stood like that, both of them hard as iron, keeping their hips a proper distance away from each other. Then Mischa with enormous effort drew away and wiped the back of his hand across his nose and shook his head to clear his mind.

“Sascha,” he said, unsteadily. “You smell. So. Good.”

“So do you,” said Sascha. “It’s strong right now, Mischa, god.”

“I know,” said Mischa, and his face for the hundredth time that week flushed maroon. “It’s because - you.” 

“I know.” Sascha felt like he’d been stupefied; his brain wasn’t working.

“It’s so much different up close,” said Mischa. “I couldn’t tell, these past few days. But Jesus Christ.”

He swallowed, collected himself.

“We shouldn’t,” he said. “We shouldn’t do that.” Even though all he wanted to do was nosedive into Sascha’s crevices, any of them, all of them.

“I know,” said Sascha, again. “But.”

“Yeah. But.” Mischa sighed, stopped himself from adjusting his cock, he was still uncomfortably hard. But he’d been a big brother for almost twenty-two years and he knew how to access that part of his brain when he needed to. “Okay. We’re both sleeping on that couch tonight, we both need to shower. So I’m gonna go do that, and I need you to do that too. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Sascha shakily. “Mischa, you’re right, I shouldn’t - I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” said Mischa, rough, “but I’m not either.”

He cupped Sascha’s strong jawline, rubbed his thumb over his cheek, shook his head. The tension in Sascha’s musculature wasn’t lost on him; Sash was clearly clenching his teeth.

“I’ll see you in like thirty minutes. It’s okay, Sash.” 

“Okay,” said Sascha. He wrapped his hand around Mischa’s wrist and squeezed and then Mischa dropped his arm and walked away and the earth felt like it had fallen from beneath Sascha’s feet. He was confused and turned on and the fact that the weather was worsening on the other side of the glass was not lost on him. 

Under the strong hot spray of the shower he put his forehead to the wall and closed his eyes, thought about _why do you think I stay away when you’re in heat_ and _you smell. So. Good_ , and his stomach was broiling with arousal. Only a few times in his life had Sascha been exposed to Mischa’s Alpha-ness; generally Mischa had great control of himself and understood when he needed to stay away, but most of the reason Sascha hadn’t really witnessed Mischa lose control was because of Alex and Irina. After that first heat, as mortifying as it had been, he’d discussed suppressants and heat schedules with his father and they’d decided on a early time in each off season, ideally no later than the second week into Sascha’s break. For the first two years Sascha had made it through on his own with sex toys but as he’d matured it had gotten harder to do so and when he was seventeen his heat wrecked him for the first few months of the next season. Mischa and Alex had gotten into it then; Alex by his Beta nature couldn’t fully comprehend how much a heat could take out of an Alpha-less Omega - having an Alpha present meant satisfaction, and care, and attention, and in a way even healing. Necessary.

“He needs an Alpha, Dad, have you looked at him? He can barely get around and it’s been a week since he came out of it. He can’t do this again.”

“I don’t understand why it’s so much worse this time,” said Alex, bemused. “He was fine the first two years.”

“His heats are stronger now,” said Mischa. “He’s not a child, he’ll be eighteen the next time this happens. He either needs to stay on suppressants or find someone who can take care of him because if he does this again his season will be ruined. It’s going to take him forever to recover from this one.”

Sascha, wrapped in blankets on the couch, barked at them in irritation, “I can hear you, you know. Dad, Mischa’s right. I feel like fucking death. I want to talk to him about this. He’s Alpha, he gets it. Ok?”

Alex fought himself; his sons were of such dangerously contrary biological natures but there was no danger of anything happening now that Sash had made it through his heat, so he made himself walk away. Mischa had advised Sascha about the fact that the tour was chock-full of Alphas (“and you’ll have no trouble getting one to help you through a heat,”) and he needed to start looking as soon as he could. Sascha had agreed but he’d been apprehensive and unsure of how to go about it, and then, in March, while he was supporting Mischa in California, he’d met Marcelo.

Marcelo was his saving grace. He reminded Sascha so strongly of Mischa, with his strange humor and his stupid laugh and his protective nature. He was older and he already had a bond mate but the two of them had become instant friends, and Sascha liked Lukasz, Marcelo’s doubles partner and Omega, immensely. The three of them had sat down in early September and Sascha had asked Lukasz’s permission for Marcelo to help him through heat until he could find his own Alpha. He’d explained that he was very cautious and didn’t want to risk forming a bond with someone he didn’t care for and he knew that not only was their bond one of the strongest in existence, Marcelo was excellent at impulse control. He had no fear that the older Brazilian would overstep his role. Lukasz had agreed, touched Sascha’s cheekbone, smiled into his bashful face.

“You don’t have to worry, little Sascha,” he said. “Marcelo will take care of you. And he knows if he bites you, I’ll cut his dick off.”

He was joking; they all laughed, but Marcelo’s big black eyes saucered and he whistled through his teeth. 

“He not lie, Sash. You no worry. I do what you need and get out of your hair.”

And this was why Sascha loved them. They were so accepting and they were the loveliest people and best of all, Mischa approved. That was all Sascha had wanted, really, for his brother not to be disappointed in him. Mischa had taught him well what he should look for in his first Alpha - older, experienced, not a dickhead like a substantial amount of guys on tour -and Marcelo checked all the boxes.

So Marcelo had been with him since the heat of his eighteenth year and he had been patient and kind enough to let him really enjoy it, show him exactly what he liked. Effortlessly he had sensed Sascha’s embarrassment and he did everything he could to alleviate his shyness; made him eat and drink and sleep between waves, made Saschq laugh when he inevitably knotted, then let him lead the tempo until he could pull out without hurting him. Initially Sascha had let Marcelo lead but it had been so easy and the sex had been blindingly good and by the end of that week he’d felt confident enough to ask for what he’d wanted. He learned that he liked to ride, liked his hair pulled, _loved_ to be thrown around - which Marcelo was capable of doing, because he was one of the few people in the world who was taller than Sascha. All in all it was far less embarrassing and heaps more enjoyable than Sascha had ever dreamed and he knew he’d never be able to thank Marcelo enough.

After they’d successfully pulled him through the week they’d stayed in bed all day and Marcelo had force-fed Sascha a smorgasbord of food - “you EAT, skinny-ass, you burn millions of calories riding dick this week, you already tiny enough” - and when Marcelo had left for the beach with Lukasz the next day he’d FaceTimed Sascha from his balcony, wearing a Hawaiian Dad shirt and huge shades, laughing like nothing at all had changed.

Mischa had called him that night to check on his progress; when he’d answered Mischa had sighed out loud in relief.

“Good, you’re done. How was it? Was he okay? Did he hurt you?”

“No, Mischa,” said Sascha gently, and he laughed. “I’m doing fine. He overfed me and made sure I was comfortable. He was the best we could have hoped for.”

He didn’t know why he said _we_ not _me_ but Mischa didn’t say a word about it because it didn’t feel like Sascha could have said anything else. Mischa had helped him plan this; he was as much a part of it as Sascha.

“Okay,” said Mischa. “Are you okay? Do you need me to bring you anything? I can come stay the night at your hotel if you want?”

“I’d love that, Mischa,” said Sascha quietly, “but the smell would knock you out. You better stay away.”

Mischa went quiet for a second and Sascha felt sick to his stomach. All he wanted was Mischa but it wasn’t possible, not this soon after a heat; the sheets were saturated with cum and sweat and slick and Sascha hadn’t even made it to the shower to clean himself yet. It would end Mischa to be near him, and with another Alpha’s scent all over him, Sascha wasn’t sure what would happen.

“You’re right,” said Mischa at last, “didn’t think about that. But I wish I could.”

“Me too.” Sascha sighed. “I’ll be home tomorrow. My stuff is in the other room so it shouldn’t have absorbed the scent, but just in case I’ll do laundry as soon as I get back. Then we can hang out all day, okay?”

So they’d hung up and Sascha had gone to stand in the shower left feeling like there was something not quite right about _all_ of that.

Which, if he was blunt with himself, was how he felt now. He knew that his smell was tempting to Mischa; fuck, he’d known it forever, yet he’d given it freely anyway, let his brother scent at one of his most intimate parts with full awareness of how much both of them enjoyed it. It wasn’t right and it had been pounded into his head since he was a child by his parents but nature was a cruel thing. It didn’t seem fair that Mischa was his older brother and they were both so wild for each other’s pheromones.

Not for the first time, Sascha thought fairly that if Mischa wasn’t his sibling, he probably would have chosen him for his Alpha.

Because he knew the rest of the night would be rough if he didn’t he jerked off in the shower, disgraced by his thoughts, Mischa with his sin-dark eyes and the sharp hungry way he’d inhaled in Sascha’s armpit. _I can tell you’re off your meds_ , he’d said, and _it’s because - you._

He couldn’t know that in the other bathroom Mischa had taken the hoodie that Sascha had been wearing and yanked it wildly inside out, shoved his nose into the fabric, and gotten positively high from his little brother’s pheromones before slinking shame-laden into his own shower to do the exact same thing.

*

The rain seemed to have subsided somewhat by the time they made it back into the living room, a fact that further helped to ease the tension that had been brewing between them earlier. Sascha had finished first and busied himself dragging blankets and pillows into the main area to drape over the couch; Mischa walked out of his suite to see him perched happily on the edge of the couch, channel surfing, two cups of hot cocoa on the coffee table in front of him.

“Hi,” he chirped when he saw Mischa. “I made us hot chocolate. The rain makes me cold and I didn’t know if you’d want some, so I fixed it just in case.”

Mischa smiled; Sascha could be maddeningly overconfident these days, still so young struggling to handle fame and success and millions of people groveling for whatever tiny piece of him they could snatch, but it was just an act, a defense mechanism against the emotional turmoil the spotlight could bring. With Mischa he toned it down because he was one of the few people in the world who knew Sascha all the way through, had watched him be made from scratch. In front of Mischa there was no pretending, no need for braggadocio. There were stupid jokes and movie marathons, honesty and post-loss tears, pulling faces at each other while one was on court and the other in the stands. Hot cocoa waiting for Mischa when he got out of the shower.

“Thanks, kiddo,” he said, and Sascha beamed. “If you ever have to ask yourself if I want some of whatever you’re making, the answer is yes." 

“That’s what I thought.” Sascha handed him his mug, tried not to look out the window. “The rain seems like it’s calming down.”

“Thank God.” Mischa came to sit by him, stretched out cozy like he hadn’t just jerked off with Sascha’s scent under his nose. “Pick a movie. Relax. You’ll be home by this time tomorrow night.”

And it was like this that they passed the time, curled together under blankets with mugs in hand, providing occasional film commentary as they enjoyed each other’s company. The rain was steady but it hadn’t increased or decreased by the time they’d finished their second movie and Sascha was feeling, quite obviously, better about it. By eleven thirty he was dozing with his feet in Mischa’s lap and his tawney head dropped down onto one long arm and Mischa’s last thought before he fell asleep was that they’d been anxious about nothing. Obviously the storm was going to bypass them. Obviously there was nothing to worry about.

At six thirty am he awoke with lightning in his eyes and a furious rhythmic pounding in his head, which he didn’t immediately identify as knocking. Across the couch Sascha was still passed out but his was the only peace allowed in their little room because Mischa’s heartbeat was roaring and outside it was chaos, silver skies and sheets of rain punctuated with ribbons of electric yellow. 

He rose from the couch as lithely as he could, crossed the living room to the front door, unlatched it. The wind when he opened it nearly wrenched the knob out of his hand.

On the front porch stood one of the resort employees, bundled in a rain coat, trepidation in his eyes. The rain was furious around them and Mischa heard thunder growling in the distance. With a valiant attempt to stow his panic, he stepped aside so the man could come in.

“Unfortunate news, sir,” said the employee with the proper amount of regret in his voice. “As you can see, the storm has worsened significantly overnight. All flights from the island have been canceled indefinitely. We deeply regret any inconvenience.”

Mischa had known what the pounding on the door meant as soon as he’d looked out the window that morning, but hearing the words spoken aloud made the situation seem infinitely worse. His voice when he finally dislodged it from his throat was a croak. 

“Canceled - indefinitely?” 

“Yes, sir,” said the man. He looked very small in his raincoat. “Again, we’re terribly sorry for the inconvenience, sir. As soon as the weather clears you’ll be on the first flight home.”

“But when - when will that be?” Mischa couldn’t breathe. “We need - my brother needs - we can’t wait.”

“I couldn’t say for certain, sir,” said the man, continuing to look apologetic. “This is a bad storm. We haven’t seen one like this for ages. It’s impossible to say when conditions will become stable enough for travel.”

Mischa tried to relax, couldn’t get his shoulders to un-knot.

“There’s nothing we can do?”

“No. I’m sorry, sir, but it’s simply unsafe to fly a plane in these conditions. It’s really not safe to be outside. Wind speeds are dangerously high and visibility is terrible. We at the resort would advise that you stay in your building, away from windows if possible, and maybe seek shelter in the basement. Yours is the only place of lodging we offer with a place to go underground.”

“Okay,” said Mischa hollowly. His head was dizzy. “I understand. So - are we the only ones left? It’s just me and Sash?”

“Yes, sir,” said the man. “Resort employees and you two. The last of our other guests left yesterday evening.”

“And what about other inhabitants of the island? Are they still here?” 

“Meesh? What’s going on?”

From the living room Sascha emerged, yawning with his t-shirt rumpled from sleep. He was entirely too innocent for what he was about to find out. Mischa’s stomach hurt. 

“Did I oversleep? What’s happening?”

“No, Sash,” said Mischa heavily. “You didn’t oversleep. The storm got much worse overnight and all flights off the island have been cancelled.”

“What?” Sascha looked like he didn’t quite understand. “All flights? For how long?”

“Indefinitely, sir,” said the nameless resort employee. “As I’ve told your brother, as soon as the weather clears we’ll get you on a flight back home, but for now, the best thing to do is bunk down. To answer your other question, Mr. Mischa, the island is primarily a tourist destination, so it houses very few actual residents. To my knowledge, most of them have gone as inland as they can. It’s just us out here.” 

In the time it had taken for him to finish his sentence Sascha’s skin had blanched from high sleep flush to sickly spectre alabaster; he looked quite ill. Instinctively Mischa reached out for him and Sascha came to stand at his side. Mischa clamped a protective hand around his shoulder.

“Okay,” said Mischa at last. “Is it safe for you to go back to the lobby? Will you be all right?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine, sir,” said the man dismissively. “It’s just right across the way. We have a shelter in the basement there, should we need it. For the time being you two should be safe to run across as well, for food and supplies and such. Again, I am very sorry for this storm. It is always disappointing for travel to be delayed, especially in these circumstances. May I bring you anything?”

“No,” said Mischa heavily, “we can come get it if we need it. Thank you for coming to tell us.”

The man nodded, hesitated, then he gave a little wave and crashed back out the door into the storm. The second he was gone Sascha gave a little moan of despair.

“Mischa, we can’t stay here. We have to go. I’m - I have a day and a half.”

“I know, Sash,” said Mischa, and he pulled Sascha’s head down to his own shoulder, pressed his face into his brother’s sun-washed curls. “I know. What do you want me to do? Do you want to go over there and ask if they have suppressants?”

“They won’t work,” said Sascha miserably. “Omegas are prescribed our own individual dosages, depending on height, weight, et cetera. Even if another Omega would let me borrow suppressants from them, their meds wouldn’t hold it off because they aren’t meant for me. Besides, I’m too close to heat.”

“You have this down to a science,” said Mischa, with not a little wonder in his voice.

“Yes. Normally I do. Although apparently not this time.” Sascha raised his head; his eyes were grim. “We have to find an Alpha.”

“Sascha,” said Mischa, all dry throat and sweat-dripped palms, “do you know how rare it is for someone in the service industry to be anything but a Beta or an Omega?”

“I know, Meesh,” said Sascha. His voice was aggressive with fear. “But as of right now that’s my only fucking option.”

So they threw on their clothes, waded across the little road to the main quadrant. The ferocity of the storm was unbelievable: trees were bowed in half against the sheer force of the wind and over the scream of it Mischa could hear the ocean, roaring like a Kraken beast, fortified by the cyclonic squall. He was marveling; he was terrified. When they reached the inside of the deserted lobby they threw off their hoodies, stood breathing together for a moment before Mischa said, knowing that Sascha had the tendency to be somewhat shy about his Omega status:

“Is there a way you want me to go about this or - “

“No. We’re past that now, Meesh. If we don’t find someone to help me I’m fucked for next season.” The color of Sascha’s skin had not improved; his fingertips were quivering as he swiped water from his eyes. “Divide and conquer, okay?"

“Okay,” said Mischa, and he took the left side of the building while Sascha took the right. The absolute solitude of the place would have been welcome under normal circumstances but now Mischa’s nerves were ragged from the rush of the malevolent storm, the knowledge of what was happening, what might happen if they didn’t find Sascha an Alpha. Neither option was good. _I can smell you too,_ sascha had said, and then he had let Mischa scent him.

Mischa didn’t let himself dwell. He couldn’t, or the thumbnail he’d been ripping to bloody shreds since he’d woken up that morning would never be the same. 

Staff was scarce but Mischa found a cluster of them in the main dining area, some of them behind the bar talking, a few relaxed in booths drinking beers, reading or speaking in low voices. He went straight to the bar and didn’t let himself think about it.

“Excuse me.”

By now they all knew him by name, and turned friendly faces to him. “Mr. Mischa,” said the waiter who had been with them the evening before. “Bad storm, eh? You’re stuck with us for a few days?” 

“Yes,” said Mischa, and he shook his head. “Look, guys, I’m just going to be honest with you. You know what me and my brother do for a living, right?”

General nods and smiles; the sweet elderly woman who’d been their hostess from day one said, “you’re athletes. Tennis, yes?"

“Yes.” Mischa braced his palms against the bar. “We’re professional tennis players. My brother - he’s an Omega. He didn’t bring extra suppressants and he’s due to go into heat, like, tomorrow. If he doesn’t have an Alpha to help him through it, his entire next season is going to be wrecked. Is there one on this island?”

But before he’d even finished speaking he knew it was no good; they were watching him with pity in their eyes, shaking their heads in rueful synchronicity.

“No one on this island is anything but a Beta or an Omega,” said the lead waiter – Mischa thought his name was Alonso – with stark apology in his voice. “We could give him suppressants, but I’m sure he’s already explained to you that they won’t work for him, especially not if he’s starting his cycle tomorrow.”

Mischa felt like the air was being suctioned out of the room: slowly, so he understood that his oxygen was being reduced, so he understood that he was in trouble. “No one? What about a resident?” 

“They’re all gone,” said the elderly woman, who was watching him with open distress upon her face. Mischa both loved and hated her for it. “They’re either too far inland to reach, or they’ve relocated temporarily. Inland power has been out since about four this morning. We have power right now, but it’s been going in and out, and with the way this storm is looking, it won’t last.”

“So what you’re saying,” said Mischa heavily, “is no one’s getting in here, and no one’s getting out there.”

Uncomfortably the staff exchanged glances.

“Basically, sir,” said one of the waitresses, low in her distress.

Mischa’s head felt strange; they were all watching him now, and distantly he wondered if they knew he was an Alpha. He needed to hit, he needed to run, but he could do neither, and as it stood the most important thing now was for him to get to Sascha.

“Whatever we can do,” said Alonso, when Mischa didn’t speak immediately. “We will do it. If he needs extra food, extra blankets...”

He trailed off. Mischa forced himself to nod; he was grateful, he was. He wondered if Sascha knew yet. “Thanks, guys. We’ll figure something out. Actually, if you wouldn’t mind making us something for breakfast, we can take it back now. He needs to eat.”

Here, again, the practicality of being a big brother for two decades took precedence; even when he felt like he was about to stroke out in public, he knew to put Sascha first. _Take care of him, Mischka_ , Irina had said to him when Sascha had been born, and what else could he ever have done anyway?

While Mischa went to find Sascha, the staff busied themselves with preparing breakfast. Mischa didn’t have to go far; he found Sascha standing by the window leading to one of the overlooks, fingertips pressed to the glass against the rain, the set of his shoulders grim.

“Sash,” he said softly, and Sascha stiffened but didn’t turn.

“Did they tell you?”

“Yes,” said Mischa, in that same soothsaying tone. He didn’t ask if Sascha was all right, because he wasn’t, and they both knew it. “They’re making us food right now. You need to eat today.”

“I know,” said Sascha quietly. Mischa could barely hear him over the rain, thrashing like so many whipcracks against the windowpane. “Thank you.”

Mischa wanted to ask him what he could do, but there was nothing, and the utter bleakness of the situation lingered between them like a fugue. He went to stand beside Sascha at the window, thought of roping his arm over Sascha’s thin rigid shoulders, reconsidered. 

“I told you I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you,” he said, helplessly. “I guess I spoke too soon.”

Sascha chuckled, cheerless. “This isn’t your fault, Mischa. This is on me. I’m the one who thought it would be okay not to bring extra suppressants.”

Mischa wanted to say _it’ll be okay,_ wanted to say, _we’ll get through this,_ but he didn’t because yes, they would get through it, but no, it wouldn’t be okay. Without an Alpha, Sascha's season would be destroyed, and it was the worst possible time for this to happen. He had just won London; he was playing beautifully, his head was on straight and Ivan was doing wonders for him, shaping him like an architect might create a fortress, unassailable. It was only natural that his form would continue into the following season, but an Alpha-less heat would inflict the kind of damage that would take months to overcome.

 _You’re an Alpha_ , said the sly little voice in Mischa’s head, the same one that had urged him to stick his nose in Sascha’s proffered armpit, sent him streaking into Sascha’s room at the first whiff of his initial heat. Mischa shut down the thought process, didn’t let himself entertain it, because how could _that_ even be an option?

“Sash, you couldn’t have known,” he said, and his voice was soft as cotton, comfort. “Even the waiter said this kind of weather was ridiculous for the season. Under normal circumstances it would have been the right call. You’ve really enjoyed the last few days, right?”

“Of course I have. I’ve enjoyed this entire vacation,” said Sascha, frustrated. “More than you even know. But I’m a fucking _idiot_ , Meesh. Feeling my alcohol a little more isn’t worth ruining my entire season. I’m going to be so weak I won’t even be able to walk without help for a _month_ , let alone train.” 

“There’s stuff you can do to speed up the process,” said Mischa, but even he recognized that it was a weak argument. “Extra supplements, and stuff like that, right?”

“It won’t be enough,” said Sascha. “It’s like an injury, but worse. It’s too close to starting from square one, and I don’t want to go through that again.”

He looked sideways at Mischa and his eyes were so dead as to be startling; Mischa had never seen him look so hollow, destitute. He was used to seeing verve and joy and vibrancy in Sascha’s face and the total void presented there now was alarming.

“Come on,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else but to get Sascha to eat, think about something else for half a second. “Let’s get some food into you. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it. I’ll work extra with you next year, every day if I have to, and so will Ivan. You’re stronger than this, Sash.”

The expression on Sascha’s face didn’t shift. 

“I hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, shit. Whatever are they going to do?
> 
> Also, apparently I have a thing for making Sascha really ill on Mischa's wedding day. Seems fitting for an Omega to feel physically sick about his Alpha choosing someone else, no? ;)


	3. Chapter 3

Halfway through breakfast, the lodge lost power; before they trekked back to their hut, Mischa and Sascha filled bags with nonperishable food so they wouldn’t have to slog back to the lobby through the ever-worsening storm. For better or worse they were bunked down, nothing to do but outlast the weather, Sascha’s fast-approaching heat. Mischa wondered which catastrophe would run its course first and then he wondered if he would be able to stay in the hut without losing his grip on reality and then he made his brain change tack because he was going insane.

Back in the shelter of the living room they sat together in silence; without power there was nothing to distract them but books and stormwatching and conversation, and they were both finding it difficult to speak. Before they shut their phones off to save battery Mischa called Irina; she picked up on the first ring.

“Hey. Are you guys okay? I got a weather alert for the Maldives a second ago.”

“Hey, mum,” said Mischa, injecting as much cheer into his voice as he possibly could under the circumstances. “We’re good. They moved us away from the water and we have a basement if we need it. Our flight was canceled, obviously, but we’ll be home as soon as it lets up.” 

“Okay.” Irina’s voice sounded relieved. “Do you have power?”

“No. We lost it while we were eating breakfast.” Mischa looked across at Sascha, perched like a sparrow on a branch at the edge of the couch, picking steadily at the edges of his fingernails, and waited for his mother to ask the obvious question.

“Mischa, your brother,” said Irina carefully, “he’s close to his cycle, yes?”

“Uh, yeah, I think,” said Mischa, and if he made himself stay stonefaced he could keep the obvious anxiety out of his voice. Sascha looked at him, stricken; shook his head frantically. “He’s got extra meds, though, so he’s gonna be fine. Right, Sash?”

“Yes,” said Sascha clearly, so Irina could hear him. His eyes were wild with untruth. 

“Yes. He does. He’s fine.” The lie made Mischa’s heart trip.

“Oh, good.” This time the relief was unmistakable. “That’s good. Okay. You should turn your phone off to save power, but I want you to update me periodically, okay? And go to the basement, Mischa, promise me. Stay away from the windows.”

“We will,” said Mischa, closing his eyes. “It’s bad, but hopefully it’ll get better by the morning.”

“Hopefully,” said Irina. “Take care of each other. Let me know as soon as you find anything out.”

“Of course, Mum. Try not to worry. We’ll be fine.” 

But as he said it he met Sascha’s eyes and he knew that the fear sparkling in his brother’s irises was a mirror of his own. 

*

Hours passed, and they didn’t talk about it.

They read, watched out the window, talked about idle things. Mischa made Sascha eat every two hours. The power stayed firmly, continuously off; the wind screamed in tongues, increasing in tempo and fury, matched only by the sharp lash of the rain against every surface of the house. Sometimes they forgot themselves and went to stand by the windows to seek the lightning; Sascha was fascinated by the lurid forked arrows, blurs of light through deep harsh sheets of water. It took his mind away from things to watch violence manifest elsewhere. By six pm they had stopped hoping for the storm to cease because by then it was much too late. There was no way Sascha could make it home in time and it was not possible for him to go into heat in an airport or on a plane. For better or worse, they were stuck where they were.

Again, fraught for each other’s companionship, they slept in the living room, although “slept” was a loose term; Mischa was shock-awake and he knew Sascha was too. Multiple times he thought of asking Sascha his plan; multiple times, his courage forsook him. At two am Sascha on a whisper said, “hey. Are you asleep?”

“Yes.” Mischa was instantly hyperaware. “What’s up?”

“I know that, like,” said Sascha, and he stopped to swallow and clear his throat or maybe gather courage. “It’s hard for you, when you can smell me. But I don’t want to go through this alone. Can you at least, maybe, stay in the house with me? I’m going to have periods of lucidity and they’re awful without someone there.”

“Sascha, there’s no way I’m leaving you alone,” said Mischa firmly. “I’ll clothespin my nostrils shut and barricade your door if I have to, but I’m not going anywhere. I’d never do that to you.”

Sascha laughed into the dark, the first mirth he’d expressed since the previous day. “You think I’ll need to barricade my door?”

“It was a joke, Sash,” said Mischa, but this was a bald-faced lie and he was pretty sure they both knew it. Outside thunder crashed like a jungle drum and it was staggeringly close; he felt Sascha flinch. “Hey, it’s okay. We can go to the basement if you want.”

“Nah,” said Sascha. “Not yet. But I think I should tell you, you know, while I’m still me. If you somehow miraculously find me an Alpha, they have my permission.”

Mischa swallowed.

“Okay.”

“Man.” Sascha’s voice was rough from emotion, disuse. “Marcelo is going to kill me.”

“Probably,” said Mischa, “but don’t let him give you shit. It’s your choice to take your meds or not. I understand why you wanted to go off them for a few days.”

“It’s no excuse, Mischa,” said Sascha. “It’s not, and you know it’s not.”

“I know.” Mischa sighed, rubbed thumbs over his exhausted eyes. “But there’s no use talking about that. You learned, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” said Mischa. “Then you know not to do it again. But Sash, we’re going to have to tell Mum and Dad. They’re going to take one look at you and know, and there’s no way to hide the fact that you’ll be missing so much of your season.”

“I know,” said Sascha. “But I also know that if you’d told Mum that I didn’t have my meds she’d tell Dad and he’d freak out because - well, you know.”

Mischa’s stomach was hot; he printed deep fingernail semicircles into his palms to ground himself. “I’m very aware.”

“Yeah.” Sascha sounded like he was on the verge of continuing; Mischa waited, guessing at what he’d say, sweating out the nerves that curled through his veins. Finally, dejected:

“I’m sorry I got us into this shit, Mischa.”

“Shut up. For the third time, you’re not a meteorologist,” said Mischa heavily, and he was surprised by the depth of his disappointment. He didn’t know what he’d wanted or expected Sascha to say, but it wasn’t that. “You should get some sleep, Sash, you’re gonna need it.”

“I’m trying,” whispered Sascha, and Mischa knocked his leg with his foot.

“I know, kiddo. Let me know if you want to go downstairs.”

“I will.” 

It was like this that the night passed. Sometime after three Mischa finally dozed but it was miserable, surface-skim sleep, the kind he’d suffer through while he waited for an alarm to wake him for an important match or a flight at the break of dawn. Volatile, unforgiving. Each time he awoke he raised his head to watch the storm and it was relentless, absent of mercy like the anxiety in his head, incursion of sky.

He hadn’t asked Sascha how long he had left. If his memory and basic math skills were intact he guessed it would be early evening before the first onslaught would hit him. At half past seven Mischa drifted back to sleep with a countdown in his head; when he awoke much later it was to an empty couch and a distinct, pervasive feeling of dread. The windows were still stained with smudgy teardrops of rain, the wind continuing its fierce lament, but the house was still. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair and tried to breathe. 

“Sascha.”

From the kitchen, muffled: “Yes.”

“Are you eating?” 

“Yes.” Sascha’s voice was strong. “Hopefully this will help. You’re gonna have to force feed me between waves. I’m not going to want to eat when I come out of them.”

“Why?” Mischa remembered from the heats he’d been through with Alejandra that she’d been ravenous when she got through a wave.

“No Alpha,” said Sascha. It was difficult to hear him over the storm, but his voice was unapologetic. “It’s the worst feeling. You’re just, like, I don’t know. Unfulfilled.”

Mischa groaned. “I hate this for you.”

“Me too.”

Mischa got up, went to stand by the window, hunted lightning. When it scratched the gray like a neon clawmark he set his mouth in satisfaction, went to retrieve his phone from the end of the couch, turned it on. “You have service?”

“Barely. I texted Mum and Dad this morning to update them. Marcelo is blowing my phone up.”

Mischa laughed out loud, void of humor, before he walked into the kitchen. “I bet he is. What about your little golddigger?”

“No. She’s been quiet the past few days.” Sascha was shirtless at the table, fruit and dry cereal and peanut butter bread set out in front of him, eating like he was preparing for a match. “There’s cold coffee if you want it. We had some left over from yesterday morning.” 

Mischa made a face but went to pour himself a cup anyway; his phone where he’d set it on the counter was lighting up, digital fireworks. “How long, Sash?”

Sascha checked his watch. His belly was tumultuous with disquiet. “About four hours.” 

“Fuck.” Mischa slammed his mug down without meaning to. “Fuck, Sascha.”

“You find a clothespin yet?” Sascha’s voice was light, cajoling, but it was easy for Mischa to hear the minuscule quiver there; he’d been learning Sascha’s subtleties for two decades and he had them committed to heart by now.

“Don’t even joke,” said Mischa, shakily, because now for the first time it was hitting him, rough like the storm-roiled ocean into the island, merciless. Sascha was going into heat and Mischa was an Alpha and they both knew that he was weak for Sascha’s scent even when it was faint. He was never going to survive the next few days, not without being driven raving by that jungle-thick Omega musk. “I should have brought my _fucking_ suppressants.”

“Mischa, no, you shouldn’t have,” said Sascha, alarmed by the stricken look on Mischa’s face. “This is my fault. This is not on you.” 

“But I just - “ Mischa closed his eyes, gulped over the sudden thickness in his throat. “I’m supposed to protect you, and how am I going to do that if I’m - not right in the head?” 

“We’ll take turns standing in the rain,” said Sascha. “I’ll take cold showers. You can take them too. We’ll find you something to keep your nose shut. We’ll be fine.”

This was the closest they’d come to discussing the fact that Mischa was indeed an Alpha; discussing the fact that he was incredibly vulnerable to Sascha’s smell. Mischa wanted to talk directly about it; couldn’t. 

“Sascha, I have to tell you,” he said softly, “whatever I might say or do, when you go into heat. It’s not really me. It’s - I can’t help it.”

“I know, Meesh,” said Sascha. “Of course I know that. It’ll be the same for me. My body will be attuned to the fact that there’s an Alpha near, and it’s probably in all likelihood going to make me crazy.”

“I know.” Mischa drained half his cup in one go, leaned back against the counter, looked into Sascha’s saucer eyes. “I should look for that clothespin now, shouldn’t I.”

Sascha smiled, but it was faint. “Probably. Are you hungry?”

“No,” said Mischa. It was the truth; his stomach felt like a complicated sailor’s knot, a den of snakes.

“Worried?”

Mischa couldn’t lie. “Honestly, Sash? I’m terrified.”

Sascha bit his lip. “Me too. I don’t - I’m sorry that this is going to suck for you too. I can’t help it.”

“It’s not your fault, Sash. Mum and Dad, Jesus fuck.” Mischa shook his head. “How did we end up the way we are?”

“Not a clue. Lucky us,” said Sascha, and he finished the last of his fruit and pushed his plate away. “I just want to get this over with.”

“Me too.”

They existed for a moment in silence, Mischa gripping the coffee cup like it was his last thread of life, Sascha maneuvering strawberry stems around on his plate, and then Mischa looked at his phone and saw Marcelo’s name and felt his stomach drop.

“Does Marcelo know?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha. “He knows. He and Lukasz are really worried.”

“How much did you tell him?”

“Not much,” said Sascha. “Just that we’re stuck here and I’m fucked. He tried to call me but I can’t talk about it with him right now, you know?”

“I know.” Mischa reached over, hesitated with his fingers over the power button. “Should I call Mum or were they satisfied with what you told them?”

“They’re good. Mum’s out of her mind, you know how she gets, but they’re okay until tonight. Mischa, I need you to be the one to talk to them until I’m out of heat. I won’t be coherent in that state, they’ll know immediately that we’re lying about having extra suppressants.” 

“I’ve got you,” said Mischa, and he laughed then, a high sharp thing. “I’m gonna have to dunk my head in ice water to be mentally present for those conversations.” 

Sascha was grinning. “A text will suffice, I think.”

“That’s my plan.” Mischa sighed, went to the cupboard, took out the jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. “I’d rather die than eat this.”

“I’d rather die than go through heat with us losing our shit over each other’s scents, but apparently life isn’t fair,” said Sascha, and they looked at each other and snorted and then they were both laughing, genuinely now, brought to hysterics by the deep-space gravity of the situation. It was impossible and it was awful and they were both aware that there was another option if Sascha wanted to salvage his season but it was filed under the list of Things They Could Not Talk About and they were stuck, spiderweb trapped, nothing to foist their helplessness upon other than mirth. Outside, the rain was blinding.

After Mischa finished breakfast - and it was a struggle; his stomach continued to wriggle with apprehension - they both went to shower and Sascha put his forehead against the glass and shivered under the freezing stream of water and wondered if either of their resolves would last.

*

They played Scrabble in the living room and it was going so smoothly that Mischa forgot to be tense, forgot to be afraid. Sascha’s heat was inevitable but the longer they went without incident the higher his hopes rose. Maybe the storm would abate and Marcelo could fly out to them; maybe his cycle would be delayed, maybe, maybe, maybe.

But then again, maybe not.

At some point Mischa stopped watching the time, and that was why when Sascha dropped his Scrabble tile in the middle of laying a word and gave a brusque little gasp Mischa was caught completely off guard, thrown. His heartbeat, which had more or less reverted to normal in the absence of immediate danger, hastened so abruptly he felt nausea curling in his throat.

“Sash?”

Sascha breathed in once through his nose; his hand suspended over the board had begun to shake. “Mmhmm.”

Mischa didn’t know what to ask. “Are you – ?”

“Yes,” said Sascha harshly, short, and Mischa knew he was scared.

“What do you need? What can I do?” Mischa’s instinct was to touch him, didn’t know if he should.

Sascha chuckled grimly, closed his eyes, shook his head fast from side to side. “There’s – I don’t know. There’s nothing to do but wait it out. Make sure I eat. I need to – _fuck_.”

It was a guttural thing, that curse, and when Sascha raised his head and opened his eyes Mischa was shocked to see that his pupils were dilated, reduced from vivid green to the unalloyed ink-black of a starless night.

“Jesus Christ, Sash.”

Sascha blinked; bit his lower lip, the heat didn’t quite have hold of him yet and his rational mind was still very much present. His voice shuddered when he spoke. “Yeah, I – I know. I need to go to my room, I think.”

“Okay,” said Mischa, all heightened panic; it was painful to him that there was nothing he could do for Sascha without exacerbating things just then. “Go. Do whatever you need. I’ll clean up the game and whenever you need food I’ll bring it to you, okay?”

“Yes. Okay.” Sascha climbed unsteadily to his feet; Mischa put out a hand to help him and automatically Sascha seized it. When their skin came into contact it was like they’d wrapped their hands around bolts of lightning, pulled them from the sky, and Sascha made a kind of strangled noise in the back of his throat. He tugged his hand away and their eyes met wild and just like that Mischa realized that the air had changed. 

Sascha was scenting. Already.

Blurrily Mischa understood that it was because they’d touched; an Omega in heat was engineered to recognize the presence of an Alpha, and his body – evidently regardless of bloodline – was crying out for Mischa’s nature. Instinctively Mischa put a hand over his face and tried to breathe into his palm but he’d already caught a whiff; he felt his stomach contract, rife with interest.

Sascha’s face, so pale a moment ago, had begun to flourish into dark mulberry red.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice a yelp, and then he turned and fled to his bedroom, yanked the door violently closed behind him. The resultant slam was loud enough that Mischa heard it easily it over the storm. He was fully aware that fifty feet and a shut door wouldn’t keep Sascha’s scent from flooding the air once he was in the deep throes of his first wave and already the smell of the place was altered: faint, underlying, but undeniably present.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, and then, for good measure, “ _Jesus_ fuck.”

Just to distract himself he started picking up the Scrabble tiles, one by one so he’d waste time. The words on the board were a kaleidoscope, a dictionary; here _rough,_ there _stark_. _Green, scream, draw_. They made sense in Mischa’s mind but he felt like he was seeing them from beneath the surface of the ocean; nothing was clear, his heartbeat was too rampant in his bloodstream and his brain had been shuffled like a deck of cards. He was nervous, he realized; he was afraid of what he might do when Sascha really started to give off heat scent, when the urge to mate made him senseless. Already his body was sharply attuned to the change in the air; how could he fight it when Sascha was in the midst of a full-blown wave? It had been exactly a year since Sascha had gone off his suppressants and Mischa knew from listening in on his parents’ covert conversations that Sascha’s natural biological order would have him going through at least two heats a year. That meant that when he was off suppressants his heats would be tremendously intense, likely the reason that an Alpha-less cycle would lead him to such lengthy periods of athletic futility. Mischa wasn’t sure if it was like this for every Omega but he suspected that Sascha was making it worse on himself by not being bonded to a steady Alpha. Marcelo was certainly a wonderful substitute, but Omegas always did best when they actually shared a bond with a suitable Alpha.

Damn him and his pickiness.

Mischa swept up the rest of the Scrabble tiles, folded the game board into its box, went to the kitchen to chug a freezing glass of water. In the rain-stained glass he caught his own reflection and the burden in his own eyes was discomfiting. He thumped his glass to the counter, turned to go to his room to ride out the next hour or so until Sascha was coherent again. _If_ he was coherent again. Mischa wasn’t sure how long Sascha’s waves would last, or if he could even bring himself fully out of them without an Alpha to help alleviate the intensity. 

He fell on his bed and tried to read in the frustratingly low gray-tinted light, distractions hurled at him from every angle; the storm was now so formidable he was afraid they’d have to hunker down in the basement for a while, and he knew it would be the closest thing to impossible for them to occupy the same space while Sascha was emanating heat scent. He’d closed his door but he kept looking at it so frequently he eventually barged frustrated back over to open it, and when he did he stood staring across the way at Sascha’s door, firmly shut, no sound from behind it. Unknowable. _We’ll take turns standing in the rain_ , Sascha had said, but Mischa couldn’t admit to himself how much he didn’t want that. What he really wanted was to go stand by Sascha’s door, hunt for another glimpse of that distinct scent, the one that had made such a wreck of him almost eight years ago. The one that was hovering under his nose right now, cultivating strength every second.

It took fifteen minutes for Sascha’s pungency to infiltrate into Mischa’s room. It took another fifteen for him to start moaning. When Mischa heard the first vulnerable little whimper, low as it was, his ears pricked for it; he felt like a wolf out for prey, hearing every microscopic sound like it was right next to him. He leapt from the bed, froze in his doorway, made himself turn around and go to the bathroom to retrieve a bottle of shampoo, which he held firmly under his nose before beginning the treacherous journey towards Sascha’s door. It was an idiotic thing he was about to do; he was well aware, but his brother was in pain and he couldn’t ignore nearly twenty-two years of instinct. If he could help just by being there, he would try.

He was halfway across the room before he realized the shampoo wasn’t going to be strong enough. Sascha’s musk was _insane_ ; he smelled ripe and raw and thick, heavy enough to taste, and _oh_ could Mischa taste it, layer of sex on his tongue, Sascha’s essence invading his bloodstream like the purest of hallucinogens. However enticing his scent had been as a teenager, it was a thousand times stronger now; with Sascha’s age his heat scent had clearly thickened and intensified and developed. Mischa was stupefied by it. He knew he should tear himself away, try to get outside and breathe something other than his brother’s mating call, but he found himself stumbling blind to Sascha’s door, kneeling before it like a sinner humbled at the base of a cross.

“Sash,” he said, and on the other side of the door Sascha swore out loud.

“Mischa, what are you doing?” Low, sharp, strained; he was panting. “You need to get out of here, you’re gonna make it worse on both of us.”

“I know,” said Mischa, miserably, “but you sound like you’re dying in there. Is there nothing I can do? Would it help for me to try to distract you?”

Sascha’s laugh was calamitous, salty. “Oh, you’re distracting, all right.”

Mischa knew what he meant and he was suddenly aware of how hard he was. “You are, too.”

“I bet.” Sascha’s voice keened. “You need to go outside and get in the rain for a second. I don’t want to fucking torture you again.”

Mischa started to say _you’re not torturing me_ but this was such a ridiculous lie that it would have been insulting to both of them if he’d spoken it aloud. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he said, grim. “In fact, you should go in the bathroom if you can, away from the windows Storm’s getting worse.”

“Is it?” Sascha’s panting was increasing in tempo. “Hard to tell.”

“Sascha, Jesus.” Mischa was stoned from his scent but he was clearheaded enough to first and foremost be concerned with his wellbeing. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

Sascha gave a throttled bark of laughter. “So many things.”

Mischa _hrrrrrmphed_ because he couldn’t enunciate immediately after Sascha said something like _that_. “I mean anything else. Like water, or ice, or Doritos? I don’t know.”

“Mischa, you,” said Sascha, but he’d laughed, genuinely this time, and Mischa was triumphant. “You know you can’t come in here right now. You’re doing great, champ, but last time. You remember how hard it was for you to walk away.”

Mischa had just enough time to register mirth at _you’re doing great, champ_ before he felt shame wrapping around his core. “I’m so sorry, Sascha.” 

“Stop. Don’t be.”

“Are you – you’re not afraid of me?” Mischa wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer, would never be able to live with himself if Sascha said _yes_.

“Mischa, _no_ ,” said Sascha, with striking vehemence. “That’s not it at all. Believe me, it’s not. But I know you beat yourself up for ages last time – I don’t want you to – oh my _fucking Jesus_.”

At these words a fresh layer of smell, rich as earth, good as sin, rent the air. Mischa felt like he’d been punched by it. A minute ago he’d been chagrined by how aroused he was but now his cock was throbbing, dripping, and his brain was slowly shutting down. _Omega_. To try to force himself to stay lucid he pressed a thumb into his mouth and bit the cuticle so roughly he tasted copper.

“Sash – ”

“Meesh, _go_ ,” said Sascha, in frustration. “Please. Don’t make this harder on both of us. I’m about to not even be able to talk to you and you don’t want to be here when that happens, trust me. Go down to the basement and come check on me in like an hour. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Feeling worthless and futile Mischa slammed his hand against the door; what Sascha required of him he had spent a lifetime learning that he was not permitted to give. He knew that Sascha wouldn’t be fine but he knew he had to put some distance between them or inevitably one or the other was going to start breaking rules that had been assigned to them for years.

“You know where I’ll be if you need me,” he said, low, and Sascha gave this ragged little hiss at the back of his throat.

“Mischa, I already need you,” he said, and it was a confession, shame like iniquity writhing through his words. “That’s why I’m telling you to _go_.”

Mischa hesitated. He wasn’t sure if it counted because of the state Sascha was in, but he thought he knew what Sascha was saying.

“You need - Sash, are you lucid?”

“If I wasn’t lucid I’d be begging you,” said Sascha frankly. His voice was destroyed. “And to be perfectly honest, I’m about to start.”

There was half a second where Mischa thought he might totally lose control; the mental image Sascha had just presented to him was so arousing he actually felt dizzy from the downward blood rush. He threw his head back and inhaled his brother’s deep pungency and when he opened his eyes they were black.

“God _fucking_ dammit, Sascha.”

Sascha gave a noise that could only be described as a _whine_ ; again, abruptly, his scent intensified. Mischa felt his eyes starting to roll back into his head and to bring himself back down to earth he bit his inner cheek, hard, cruel. The moment of clarity it brought him allowed him to stumble away, as quickly as he could, self-hatred warring with blind desire in his chest. He knew they were dancing around the obvious: the fact that Mischa was an Alpha, and Mischa could save Sascha’s season, and they’d been drawn to each other’s scents since Sascha was _fourteen_. It wasn’t like they were speaking expressly but right now there was no reservation within his heat-addled brain to stop Sascha from saying _I’m about to start begging_. 

There was only one thing for which an Omega begged an Alpha during heat. 

Mischa stormed into the kitchen, opened the middle drawer under the counter, brought out one of the flashlights stored there for emergencies. He pressed the edge of it against his thigh to force himself to focus on something other than the overlay of aroma in the air but his primal nature was always at the edge of his consciousness and it was working so hard to overtake him, a war chant in the back of his mind, _Omega Omega Omega_. Mischa put his empty palm against the counter and leaned over it, closed his eyes, curled his toes. Around the house the storm screamed like a panther, rain smashing the windowpanes, thunderclaps too close together to feel entirely safe. Mischa was relentlessly worried for Sascha’s safety, but all he could do was throw up pleas to whatever entity might listen and let it go. Without the physical barrier of a door between them they’d be done.

Mischa thought about Sascha offering his scent; thought about how he could have drowned in it. Thought about Sascha saying, _I can smell you too_ ; Sascha’s limitless eyes when Mischa had forced himself to pull away from his armpit, dark and arcane.

_If you somehow miraculously find me an Alpha, they have my permission._

The basement was a small, cozy thing; normally with power there were lamps and an overhead light to bring warmth to the space but as it was right now Mischa was equipped with only night vision and that singular flashlight. He shut the door behind him, went immediately to the sofa in the corner of the room, flopped down upon it and rested the flashlight handle-down at the floor by his feet. Down here with the door shut he couldn’t hear the storm; what was more, the space was beneath his room, shielding his ears from Sascha’s helpless noises. Down here, he might survive, if not for the smell.

Without even the slightest hesitation he yanked his shorts down, reached between his legs for his swollen cock, already leaking with indecent enthusiasm down his fingers. Surely jerking off would blunt the blade edge of his desire, let his brain shake some of the fog of Sascha’s aroma; having an orgasm had almost completely taken care of the problem the other night, when he’d buried his face in the sweatshirt that Sascha had worn before slinking into the shower to finish the job. Now the heat scent was so thick and strong and Mischa was so worked up it took him maybe two minutes; when he came he bit into one of the couch pillows to stop himself yelping aloud from pleasure. He had long ago realized that he was just going to have to come to terms with the thoughts that had brought him to such hasty climax because they were _all_ Sascha. The husk of his voice through the bedroom door, the involuntary swearing; his musk and his lust-punched eyes and how brazen he’d been. Again Mischa’s brain revisited the visual of him pleading to be fucked and another last shuddering spout of seed poured from his slick slit.

He was shaking. He hadn’t brought a towel with him and he couldn’t go upstairs like this so he pulled off his t-shirt, cleaned himself, chucked the sticky mess into a corner so he wouldn’t have to be reminded of his own disgrace. Settled back against the couch cushions and tried to breathe through his mouth, because Sascha’s scent was only minimally reduced from the distance he’d placed between them.

He waited.

*

While his plan was sensible, and mildly genius, it took only a modest while for Mischa to realize it wasn’t going to work. 

Breathing through his mouth didn’t come naturally to him; every few minutes he found himself reverting back to his custom pattern of inhaling through his nose, and by the time he caught himself his bloodstream was once again saturated with the scent of an Omega in heat. His body had taken maybe a ten-minute break from being interested but he was painfully hard again and he had been for the better part of half an hour now. To distract himself he did jumping jacks, pushups; sang old Russian Catholic hymns that his mother had used as lullabies when he and Sascha were smaller. Nothing worked. 

They were a little less than two hours into Sascha’s first wave. Heats could last for up to five days. Mischa thought, lying on his stomach with his face buried in a pillow, insistent arousal pressed firmly against his belly, that they were more fucked than they’d ever been.

He checked his watch in the dark, square neon numbers stark against the black. Sascha had said to check on him in an hour. It had been sixty-three minutes since Mischa had left him alone and he knew he shouldn’t but he found himself getting up, treading cautiously over to the stairs. Careful, delicate, he ascended, knowing how he must smell: of sex and exercise and Alpha pheromones heightened by Sascha’s proximity. Before he opened the door he sucked in a massive breath through his mouth, then burst in and darted across the way to his room so he could douse himself with deodorant and cologne, pull on a clean shirt. As he’d known it would the storm outside continued its furor; despite his intuitive forewarning the sight of lightning skidding across the sky still dismayed him. It was difficult to hold on to hope when nothing at all about the situation seemed to be changing.

In the bathroom mirror Mischa looked himself in the eye and he wasn’t sure if he was delivering a pep talk or if he was asking himself _why are you like this_? Either way the personal communication was ineffective and he crept nervous to Sascha’s room with a triphammer heartbeat and a stomach full of pleasantly hot coals. He was sick of feeling like he'd arrived at judgment day and he knew it wasn't the last he'd feel like this before the ordeal was over.

He leaned his head against the door; he hadn’t noticed until now because his mind had been so hyperfixated on other things but Sascha had been quiet since he’d arrived upstairs. His scent, though still knee-buckling, was not quite as fresh as it had been an hour ago.

“Sash?”

Pause. Silence governed in unpleasant tandem with the anxious ringing in Mischa’s ears. Then, low,

“Hey. I’m here.”

“Hey.” Mischa put his forehead to the door, exhaled. “How’s it going?” He didn’t say _are you okay_ because they both knew that neither of them were.

“Uh.” Sascha gave a low chuckle; his voice was dry, the crackle of a dead leaf on October ground. “It’s going. I can’t lie, Mischa, that was rough. I don’t think I’ll be able to come out of it like this for much longer until it’s over. It’s been too long since my last cycle.”

“Are you out of it now? Can I bring you anything?”

“Yes,” said Sascha. “Not for long. But it’s okay. I’m not weak or anything yet. I was just about to come get some water.” 

Mischa stepped back from the door just as Sascha opened it from the other side; their eyes met in the middle and the smell of him, released tenfold when he’d opened the door, nearly knocked Mischa flat. The dizziness in his head flared briefly but then Mischa looked Sascha up and down and for the first time in hours his brother’s scent became second on his list of concerns.

Sascha looked _wrecked._ His skin was drained of its normal high healthy flush; he was sallow as a vampire, eyes overbright jade against the streetfight bruises that were already beginning to form underneath them. His hair was sweat-damp and tamped down flat against his forehead; when he reached up to brush it away Mischa saw raw scarlet half-moons embedded in his palms from where he’d been stabbing his fingernails. Automatically he raised his hand to his mouth and bit roughly at his cuticle, grounded himself.

“Sash,” he said, “let me see your hand.” 

“It’s fine,” said Sascha, protesting, but in spite of himself Mischa reached out to take it, spread his palm flat. Their skin when it came together buzzed, lethal wasp nest, danger. Carefully Mischa rubbed his thumb over Sascha’s palm; the nail prints were so deep a few of them had drawn blood.

“Sash...”

“Yeah, I know.” When Mischa had touched him Sascha’s breath had hitched; now Mischa could feel his blood thrumming under his skin. “I’m - there’s not a lot I can do other than distract myself with pain.”

Mischa was familiar. “Does jerking off help?”

Sascha laughed, harshly. “Did it help you?”

“Not at all,” said Mischa, and then he realized what Sascha had said. “Wait, you know...?”

“Mischa, of course I know,” said Sascha, his eyes urgent. “You’re the only Alpha in miles. I know your scent even when I’m not in heat. Even if I hadn’t even able to smell you doing it I’d know from being next to you now. The cologne and the fresh t-shirt help, but it can’t mask you. You’re stronger than you’ve ever been right now, even stronger than the first time. You don’t know how goddamned good you smell.”

The last sentence came out like a cyclonic twist of wind; Mischa wasn’t entirely sure Sascha had meant to say it, but the words were hot in the air between them now and he was so, so glad. He felt slightly less monstrous knowing that Sascha was debilitated from his scent, too.

“It can’t be half as good as you,” he said. “Why do you think I had to jerk off? You’re driving me fucking crazy, Sash." 

“I know,” said Sascha, quiet. He looked away, down at their hands, suspended between them as Mischa stroked his skin. “It’s the same for me with you. I wasn’t lying when I said I was about to start begging.”

“I didn’t think you were,” said Mischa. “And I couldn’t – I couldn’t have taken that.”

Sascha took a breath.

“Mischa,” he said, measuredly. “I told you that if you found an Alpha – any Alpha – they had my permission.”

Mischa swallowed; he couldn’t know what Sascha was saying unless he spelled it out for him because permission wasn’t permission in this case unless it was explicit, but he had a tiny suspicion and he was afraid to ask, afraid to clarify, because what if this went in a direction from whence they could not backtrack?

“Any – any Alpha?”

Sascha looked him level in the eye and his hands were shaking and, Mischa realized, so was his entire body. He couldn’t be sure if it was the aftermath of the wave or nerves, but Sascha’s voice was steady when he spoke.

“Yes, Mischa. _Any_ Alpha. Now come on, I need water." 

He took off toward the kitchen; Mischa followed him, dumbstruck, and tried not to stick his nose in Sascha’s throat as he passed. The significant little voice in his head reminding him that he could save Sascha’s season was loud, loud, loud, but now it was tinged with concern. Sascha looked rough already, and it was hours into the first day. How bad would it be by the time his heat was finished?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is ROUGH. It's about to get a whole lot worse.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh yeah, just gonna go ahead and change the 'M' rating to 'E'. I wasn't kidding when I said this was the dirtiest thing I've ever written.
> 
> I listened to [this playlist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_WQWtX5DyQw) while I wrote this and honestly the headspace is just lovely. Calms the tension down a bit, I think.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy... ;)

Mischa stood leaning against the kitchen counter while Sascha filled a glass at the sink, gulped it down. When he filled it again he sipped it slowly, watching the boisterous storm out the window, and the silence was so heavy it felt like a winter blanket. They were thin eggshells, cracked windshields, a frozen pond thawing in warmer temperatures. Breaking point.

“How long until the next one?”

“I don’t know.” Sascha shrugged. “Fifteen minutes, thirty? They’re closer together when I don’t have an Alpha to satiate me.” 

Mischa was hard for that, disgusted with himself. He thought of _any Alpha_ and after that he couldn’t really speak so he _mmmm_ ed indistinctly and when Sascha turned to him he was grinning. Mischa shook his head, rolled his eyes, because he knew exactly what Sascha was smirking about.

“Fuck off.”

“Wish I could,” said Sascha, grim, but his eyes still glowed. “Really. You’re not the only one being driven crazy, Meesh.” 

“I know.” Mischa ran a hand over his face, cracked the knuckle on his left thumb. He could barely breathe without being shaken by his arousal. “Do you think we should call Mum and Dad while you’re clear?”

“Good plan,” said Sascha. “Then tell them we can only text to save battery until the power comes back on.”

“Perfect.” Mischa grabbed his phone from the counter, switched it on, ignored the barrage of texts and notifications to pull up his keypad. “You call them, I’m gonna call Evi. I’ve been texting her but she’s gonna want to hear my voice to be sure we’re okay.”

Something flashed across Sascha’s face and Mischa could have sworn it was anger but then it passed and Sascha’s expressed wiped; he turned to the island counter in the middle of the kitchen to grab his own phone and turned it on while Mischa called Evgeniya to reassure her. She picked up after half a ring. 

“Hey. Is everything ok?”

_No_. “Hey. Everything’s fine, just really fucking dark and stormy,” said Mischa, and Evgeniya laughed. “We haven’t had power for over a day, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“Is it getting any better at all?” Evgeniya’s voice was muffled; service was shoddy at best, and Mischa knew that at any moment he might lose her.

“No. I actually think it’s gotten worse,” said Mischa, grimly. In the corner of the kitchen he was aware of Sascha’s voice; he’d called Alex and gotten an answer and was now reassuring their parents as best he could. “We’re just going to have to wait it out, Evi.”

“I hate this for you, Mischa,” said Evgeniya. “Is Sascha okay? He’s pretty close to heat, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he’s fine,” said Mischa, and it alarmed him how easy it was to lie to her; it wasn’t like it had been talking to his mother, wrenching shame in his gut. He wondered if the obvious problem here had crossed her mind but pushed the thought away; no one would think that Sascha wouldn’t have brought extra meds in case of emergency, let alone knowingly stop taking them before the vacation was over. “He brought like a month’s work of extra meds, so unless this is the storm of the century, he’s got more than enough to last. Thanks for thinking of him.”

“Of course,” said Evgeniya. Then, ruefully, “I can barely hear you, babe. It sounds awful over there but there’s a lot of static.”

“I know. It’s really bad,” said Mischa, and then, because he did: “I miss you, Evi. Tell your family I said hi. I’m going to get off so I can save battery, okay?”

“Not a bad idea,” she said. “Mischa, please be safe. I love you. Text me when you can and be safe.”

“I will. I love you too. Talk soon,” said Mischa, and he hung up. He looked at his phone screen and was unsurprised to see that Marcelo had texted him another three times. 

_U guys ok?_

And,

_Call me when u get this…_

Last, sharper than the other two messages, because it implied that Marcelo knew exactly what was happening, _  
_

_Mischa._

“Meesh,” said Sascha just as Mischa was about to reply, although what could he even have said. “Mum and Dad want to talk to you.”

“Put them on speaker,” said Mischa, and he set his phone down to walk over. The closer he got to Sascha physically the more it affected him; he felt his hackles raising pleasantly and when he leaned back against the counter next to him their arms brushed. Sascha jumped and their eyes met; Mischa cleared his throat before he spoke aloud. 

“Hey. I’m here. We’re ok.”

“Hey,” said Alex and Irina, in unison. Then, from Alex: “Everything good? You have enough food?”

“Oh yeah. We stocked up on the first day of the storm just in case. Glad we did,” said Mischa, gesturing to Sascha, _you need to eat_. Sascha made a face at him but obediently went to the cupboard to retrieve a banana. “We haven’t really been able to leave the house. We’ve been playing a lot of Scrabble because there’s not much else to do.”

Across the way, Sascha pulled a clear, sarcastic face. Mischa dug his teeth into his inner lip to keep from grinning. 

“Just like my boys,” said Irina, proudly. “Well, let us know what’s going on when you can, okay? We just wanted to hear your voices.”

“We will,” said Mischa. “Sash has a little more battery life than I do, but we’re going to have to text you guys from here on out. I’m at less than half and so is he and we have no idea when we’ll get power again.”

“We figured,” said Alex. “Please be careful, boys, okay? Stay in the basement as much as possible. The weather forecast is _grim._ ”

Sascha, halfway through peeling his banana, looked up. “Grim? How grim?”

“You’re being hit by multiple storms, one on top of the other,” said Irina. “On the Weather Channel they’re saying rain for at least the next week, and thunderstorms the next few days. The meteorologists are being iffy about that timeline as well.”

Sascha and Mischa exchanged a look, one full of dread, apprehension. They’d known this would be the likely outcome and it wasn’t like they could travel anywhere in the middle of Sascha’s heat anyway but now the final flicker of possibility, getting Marcelo to the Maldives, had been extinguished. Mischa’s stomach went sour.

“Great,” said Sascha, chomping on his banana as though it had personally insulted him, “Time to catch up on our sleep, I guess.”

“Stay safe, darlings,” said Irina, softly. “Listen to your father and stay in the basement. Text us every morning and every night so we know you’re all right, please.”

“We will, Mum,” they chorused, and it all felt so normal Mischa could almost forget that the air he was breathing was inlaid with his brother’s heat musk, that they were shuddering every time they touched, that he wanted to raise Sascha’s arms slow over his head so he could gulp the rich scent of his armpits, ruck against his leg while he did. That he was still half-hard and he had been for the greater part of an hour, and Sascha was, too, couldn’t conceal it in gym shorts, wasn’t even trying, because who could they hide from now?

Not each other.

Mischa looked at his brother’s peaked face and thought about the fact that he’d gotten sick on his wedding day. _Sometimes I wish you had never gotten married_ , he’d said, and Mischa knew what he meant, because he missed Sascha all the time and that had not improved, not an iota, since he’d started his life with Evgeniya. Sometimes, when he went weeks without seeing Sascha, he felt like he was not quite right. It was difficult to explain because it felt more like a shift, a fracture, than a mislaid piece; but the sentiment was great and it was real. He knew that Sascha felt the same way because he always seemed to Facetime Mischa on the worst days, ask him when they could see each other because _it’s been like a month, Meesh, come on_. And inevitably, no matter what, they got to one another within a week of those calls because both of them would have crossed oceans and mountains and circles of hell to be together. _Liebling_ , Mischa called Sascha, _dearest one._

Favorite.

In the middle of bidding their parents goodbye Sascha slammed a hand down on the kitchen counter and got this _look_ on his face and Mischa’s chest dove like a bird of prey and then it went numb.

“I’ll text you guys. Love you,” he said, and Sascha choked, “love you,” and before Mischa hung up he let their parents reply in case a cut-short phone call would make them worry. As it stood he had enough worry in every molecule of his existence for the entire world right then because Sascha was bent over the middle counter and the veins on his arms where he gripped the edges were striking in their starkness and his subjection was terrifying.

“No,” he groaned out loud, “nononono. Not yet. I can’t, not again, not yet.”

His face was pallid; teardrops of sweat had shaped on his forehead, and Mischa was so sick of feeling helpless. Instinctively he moved forward to stand next to his brother, bent down so Sascha would look him in the eye.

“Sash,” he said, “it’s okay. You’re strong. You know you are.”

“I’m not,” cried Sascha, and then he hissed through his teeth and there was that _god damned scent_ again and Mischa stiffened where he stood, electrified. He couldn’t understand how it kept increasing in strength but every time Sascha emitted his pheromones they seemed to intensify _enormously_. In Mischa’s head were eloquent strings of swears, words he hadn’t even known could work together until that moment, but for efficiency’s sake his brain decided on a simple, involuntary

“Fucking Christ,”

to utter aloud. He wanted to lick the air and then lick Sascha’s throat and then lick anywhere Sascha would let him and it was incredibly difficult to distinguish whether he was clear of head or not when he was breathing Omega scent with every second.

Sascha clenched his teeth.

“You want me to go to the basement this time?”

“Wherever you want,” said Mischa, with incredible effort. His cock was throbbing again. “Wherever you’re comfortable.”

Sascha raised his head then and the clear jade of his eyes was permeated with black, black lust. Mischa knew that Sascha knew that he was hard as iron and he didn’t have to look to know that Sascha was, too.

“Nowhere,” spat Sascha, “nowhere. Fuck, Mischa, this one is gonna be bad, I can feel it. I need – more than jerking off.”

It appalled Mischa how much he wanted to hear him specify.

The longer they stayed together during one of Sascha’s waves, the more difficult it was for Mischa to remain sane; he could tell from Sascha’s eyes, pinpricks of green ringed by so much murky lust, that the first wave had been merely an introductory course to the intensity that was to follow. There was a growling edge to Sascha’s voice that hadn’t been there before and he was scenting furiously, amplified by the layers already clinging to his skin, so much exposure. Mischa was tearing at the damaged edge of his thumbnail without abandon now, making himself bleed, because he should feel pain, should be punished for wanting to get Sascha up against the counter and spread his slender thighs and pound him until the moans tearing from his throat ended in Mischa’s name. The mental image was entirely too vivid and Mischa turned away, rested his head in his hands on the countertop, _rrrrrrr_ of vexation in his chest.

“God, Sascha, god,” he said, and Sascha whimpered; Mischa was aware that Sascha knew how much he was struggling, even without the verbalization. He was making it worse on them both by being so fucking _Alpha_ , the strain in his shoulders, the roughness to his voice, and he knew he must have been emitting a scent nearly as strong as Sascha’s own.

“Mischa,” said Sascha, “ _any Alpha_.”

Mischa spun to look at him and their eyes came together like two tractor-trailers colliding, massive blaze in the air, catastrophic. Then Sascha pushed himself off the counter and stumbled from the kitchen, crossed the living room to his bedroom, dove in and wrenched the door shut behind him. Mischa had seen for himself how aroused his brother was and the thought drove him to madness; he reached down and slid a firm hand along his cock to try to pacify himself, but it did nothing but increase the sensation that was shrieking through his bloodstream. _Want_.

It didn’t take thirty minutes for Sascha to start moaning this time. It took him two. Mischa was sightless for lust and he knew what _any Alpha_ meant but his brain wouldn’t let him add two and two together, he kept coming up with three or five. Surely Sascha couldn’t mean him. Surely Sascha couldn’t want this as badly as he did.

_But he wasn’t in a wave when he said it the first time, was he_ , said that insidious trickster voice, and Mischa cringed because it was true, and Sascha hadn’t even been in heat when he’d let Mischa scent him the first time, not even close. That was as much of a come on as anyone had ever given him and Mischa knew he was stupid not to have seen it but Sascha was his _baby brother_ and he was such a writhing mess for it all and he couldn’t think through the fog.

Sascha in the bedroom had thrown himself bodily atop the mattress, clutching sheets and pillows and anything he could hold while consumptive need wracked his body head to toe. He felt like he was on fire, felt like he’d die if he didn’t get what his body craved, and every inch of his skin screamed. He was pouring slick from the tight ring of muscle between his thighs and he was painfully hard and he couldn’t stop himself rucking his hips down against the bed; it didn’t do much, but stimulation from anything was better than this desolation. He’d already jerked off three times during the first wave, tried fingers inside of himself, but none of it worked, and in absolute vexation he sobbed out a moan, desperate. He didn’t know how many times he could say _any Alpha_ until Mischa, his perfect, careful, overly protective dumbass brother, the only person Sascha trusted wholly in the entire world, got the hint. _Any Alpha_ meant _Mischa_ because who the fuck else had he ever thought about mating with except Marcelo?

Sascha knew, had always known, that he had – however subconsciously – enticed fate by leaving his medication at home, and he had not stopped for even half a second to think about being cautious about his wish. Now he’d gotten it, and he was so infuriatingly shy that he could not even expressly ask Mischa to fuck him, not even when he’d been thinking about it in a dreamlike sort of way for years, since Mischa had torn into his room like a devil, feral at the eyes and hard for his scent. When Sascha thought about Mischa his mind free-associated words like _best friend_ and _companion_ and _brother_ and _soul mate_.

Another typhoon of desire shocked through him; he turned his head to the side and groaned out loud and there, suddenly, sharp as gasoline and twice as piquant, was Mischa’s scent. Sascha knew he was once again standing by the door and the last of his bashfulness dissociated from his mind.

“Mischa,” he ground out, and in answer Mischa cracked his fist against the wall, incensed by his own need.

“Sash,” he said, and his voice was _devastated_. “Does 'any Alpha' mean me?”

Pause. Sascha was panting harshly and Mischa heard every miniscule glitch in his breath. Then he said, “ _yes_.”

Mischa’s entire world vanished in one abrupt, intact swoop from beneath his feet.

“You want me to – ”

“Fuck me? Yes.” Sascha’s voice was edges, angles, gravel. “I need it, Mischa. I need you, and you know it.”

“And _you_ know I can’t do this to you,” said Mischa helplessly, prone against the door; he was razing his thumbnail to a gory pulp and he couldn’t breathe without leaking into his shorts and there was nothing but ruination in the air. “You can’t give me legitimate consent like this.”

On the other side of the door Sascha growled through clenched teeth; he sounded like a wounded wolf. Mischa was shocked at how quickly this round had taken hold of him; it was hundreds of times more intense than his first wave. “Fuck my consent, I already gave you my consent, multiple times, Mischa, I need you. I’m going to fucking combust.” 

“Sascha, this isn’t you talking,” said Mischa, and he had no idea how he could even see reason right now because he was so hard he was in pain and Sascha’s musky, ripe-raw scent was so _god damned good_ and he was half a second from tearing the door down. He’d never smelled an Omega so pungent before; Sascha was already deep in the throes of his second wave and it was stupefying. “Think of how much we’ll regret this.”

“Mischa, we won’t,” groaned Sascha, keening. “We’ve wanted to fuck each other since I was fourteen, I’d fucking die for your cock and I’m so fucking wet right now, you would slide right in. I need it, Meesh, please please please Mischa _Ineedyou_.”

It was one word, dragged from his throat in a raw burst, and by now he was nearly incoherent. Mischa dropped his head back, roared in frustration, rubbed a hand over his cock through his gym shorts before he reached in to touch himself out of pure need. The smell of an Omega in heat had invaded his every iota, it was poisoning his mind, his rationality. It was all he knew and his mental function was declining with every breath.

“You have to stop, Sash, I can’t do this. You smell like...” he shuddered. “You smell fucking perfect.”

Sascha moaned aloud, whined again, unmade by his limitless desire; Mischa could hear the bed squeaking and knew he was grinding himself against the mattress. “I can smell you, too,” he said, and his voice was almost unrecognizable. “I can tell that you’re touching yourself. Please, Mischa, please, you can fuck me through the floor if you want, I don’t care. I just _need you inside me,_ it _hurts._ You can do whatever you want.”

“You can’t give me consent in the middle of a heat,” cried Mischa in frustration, bracing himself against the wall to avoid ramming down the door. Outside, the wind screeched; he felt it in his blood. “Even if you’re lucid, you can’t, Sash, and you know it. It doesn’t count and it would kill me to know I hurt you.”

“Then call Marcelo,” said Sascha, rasping, “I swear to you I knew what I was saying, Mischa, I swear. I would never have let you scent me if I wasn’t interested in you as a potential Alpha. I promise you I wouldn’t have done it. I wanted you to smell me, and I wanted to see how you would react. If you need more than that, Marcelo is the closest thing to an Alpha I’ve got. He would never tell you yes if he didn’t think it was the right thing, you can trust him.”

“Call Marcelo and tell him – ?”

“Mischa, YES.” Sascha’s voice was a yowl, he was going blind for lust, on fire for it. “Who fucking cares, I’m dying. He won’t make it a big deal, he knows how I get when I’m in heat, and as my acting Alpha he can give you permission that counts. You’ve got maybe ten minutes before I’m completely out of it again, Meesh. _Please_.”

Mischa dug his teeth into his lower lip so viciously he tasted metal; with effort he stood up, limped over to the coffee stand by the couch, upon which rested his phone. His battery was in the yellow, there hadn’t been power for a day and a half.

He pulled up Marcelo’s number and breathed through his mouth so he could focus. It didn’t help. Sascha was mewling almost constantly and each noise he made sent blood flooding to Mischa’s cock. Mischa didn’t know what time it was where Marcelo was but he prayed to whatever entity might listen that he was awake and on top of his phone.

_Marcelo..._

Mischa’s worry was unfounded. In less than ten seconds his phone buzzed.

_About time. Sash is in heat, isn’t he._

_HELP ME._

Marcelo’s face lit up the screen; he was calling and Mischa loved him for it.

“ _Carajo_ ,” swore Marcelo, “I fucking TELL HIM AND TELL HIM to bring more meds, but do he listen? No, he say, NOOOOO, Marcelo, I AM FIIIIIINE, I have timed it PERFECTLY. So I say, Sash, you bring extra just in case, you never know, but he don’t care what I have to say, he think he know best. _Cuzão estupido._ ”

If Mischa hadn’t been so all-encompassingly horny he’d have laughed out loud but as it was he could barely formulate a sentence. “I know. Marcelo, what do I do.”

Marcelo sighed, audibly. “Is there other Alpha on island?”

“No.” Mischa swallowed over the rust in his voice. “Every tourist is gone because of the storm and all the workers are Betas or Omegas. If there are other people I can’t get them to him because the weather is so bad.”

“You have sex toys? Dildos?”

“No.” Mischa was too turned on to be embarrassed. “There’s nothing. Just me.”

“Then you already know what you have to do, Mischka,” said Marcelo, gently. “You just call me to validate. You know he can’t make it through heat without Alpha. Next season, he’s fucked.”

“Marcelo, he can’t give me permission in the state he’s in,” said Mischa weakly. “You’re the closest thing he has to an Alpha. I need you to give me yours.”

“You have it,” said Marcelo. His voice was heavy. “You’re with him right now?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m in the living room, he’s in his bedroom, but yeah.”

“He lock his door?”

“I don’t - no. I don’t think so.”

“And you still didn’t go in? _Dios mio_ , you are strong.” Marcelo sighed again. “He’s coherent?”

“He was coherent enough to tell me to call you,” said Mischa, “but barely. And it’s the same for me. He’s been begging me, and I’m trying to hang on, but...his smell. Jesus Christ.”

Marcelo chuckled. “Strong. Stronger than any Omega I ever been with.”

In the background Sascha moaned out loud, stark agonized lust from his chest. Mischa’s entire body stiffened.

Marcelo wolf whistled. “That him? I can smell him through phone.”

“Yeah. So obviously I don’t think that coherence is going to last. Marcelo, how do I not hurt him?”

“You can’t,” said Marcelo frankly. “He take it rough, rougher than anyone. He like to be, how you say, pounded. Get him up against wall, let him ride you, he go crazy for that.”

Floored, Mischa put a hand against the couch to steady himself; his slit was so slick the front of his shorts was starting to take on moisture from where his boxers had been saturated. “Fuck, Marcelo, Jesus.” 

“Uh huh.” Marcelo was amused. “I am sick human being for joking about this, but baby Sascha isn’t so innocent. Pull his hair when you’re behind him, see what he do. He is yours. Although I don’t know if you want that, since you’re his big brother and all.”

Mischa was insane for it. “Okay. Anything else?”

“Be careful, Mischa,” said Marcelo seriously, “no matter what, you no bite him. Promise me.”

“Why?” Mischa was dizzy and Sascha was keening; the bed was squeaking rhythmically again.

“Because Sash never bonded with anyone and neither have you and well...if you’re going this crazy for his scent...”

“What do you mean?” Mischa was foggy. “I’m Alpha, he’s Omega. Doesn’t that just happen?”

“Don’t know,” said Marcelo. “I never hear of Alpha-Omega brothers so weak for each other’s scents before, but then again, I only know with you because he tell me. But that don’t matter, Mischa, you need to go to him. I can hear him moaning and when he get like this he need me. Right now he need _you._ ”

Despite the fact that Sacha’s genuine porn-star groans were dominating Mischa’s consciousness, he understood that there was a lot to unpack in what Marcelo had just said. “I know. Okay. I know. Fuck, this is so bad.”

“You two are big mess. I mean, BIG.” Marcelo clucked his tongue. “You call when you finish this round. I help you. I not tell anyone, ok? Not Lukas. He don’t need to know.”

“Okay,” said Mischa, and with the permission of Sascha’s prevailing Alpha he felt his primal instinct begin to reign. “Thank you, Marcelo. I’ll call. Thank you.”

“Good luck, Mischka. You no bite. Remember.”

“I’ll remember.”

When he hung up he stood there clutching the couch with his head spinning and Sascha in his ears and when he looked up he could feel his pupils once again dilating black with lust. He couldn’t think about what he was about to do; it was almost impossible to form rational thought anyway, he was hard as granite and his body was screaming for the Omega in his vicinity.

He made his way carefully to Sascha’s bedroom door, wading through layers and layers of musk, drunk from it. 

“Sascha,” he croaked, and almost immediately Sascha answered him.

“Did he give you permission?” 

“Yes,” said Mischa, vision white at the edges, “can I come in?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re waiting for,” said Sascha, and Mischa twisted the handle, still half-shocked that it opened immediately for him, that Sascha hadn’t locked him out. Burst through the door and felt his mouth parch instantly for the sight before him.

Sascha had risen to his hands and knees in the bed, bare except for the sweat-damp pair of boxers hugging his lean waist, clearly uncomfortably hard. His eyes were bright as a platinum mine, lips the color of raspberry, swollen like they’d been kiss-bruised, and his stomach was heaving as he panted. He was miles of fevered skin, flushed where it had been pale moments ago, all lean muscle and ridged abdomen and arrowing hipbones, sharp. He was the most glorious creature Mischa had ever seen. 

As they gazed at each other Sascha closed his eyes, sighed out an involuntary moan, and a sharp surge of his distinctive Omega scent blanketed the room anew. Mischa felt like he’d been attacked; he gasped out loud, felt his cock start to drip again, aroused like he hadn’t just had an orgasm less than an hour ago.

“Sascha, _are you sure_ ,” he gasped, even though he knew Sascha would never say anything but an emphatic yes in this state.

“Mischa, _get over here_ ,” said Sascha, imploring growl, and Mischa practically leapt through the air in his haste to get to him. When he hit the bed he was overwhelmed anew by the aroma: it had permeated Sascha’s sheets and Mischa was suddenly acutely aware that his little brother had spent multiple orgasms into those sheets and he was wild for it. He seized Sascha’s shoulders, hot skin all fire where they touched, pulled one of Sascha’s arms up so he could duck his head under his arm and breathe him, the purest of scents, all sex. Mischa felt his belly shudder with arousal and understood how wrecked he already was, how fucked up Sascha had him, and they’d barely even touched. 

“So good, Sash,” he said, muffled into Sascha’s skin, that dark mess of tangled curly hair. Sascha put his face to the top of Mischa’s head, shuddered. “So fucking good, Jesus Christ you smell so good.”

“Mischa, you too, you smell amazing,” said Sascha, and he was babbling now, senses assaulted, knowing what was about to happen. “I need it, I need you. Can you – please, I want you in me, Meesh, _now_. I can’t take being this close to you without it.”

Mischa was losing his mind; he licked up Sascha’s armpit, hair and all, and the taste on his tongue matched the one in the air. “Yes. Yes, Sash. Take your shorts off.”

He pulled back to rip his shirt over his dark russet head, pulled his shorts down so he was left just in underwear. When he paused Sascha reached over to rip at his waistband, already out of his own boxers, and Mischa let him because he was fully occupied by staring at Sascha, gleaming naked before him, his cock thick and pearling at the slit, bigger than any Omega had any right to be. He was spectacular in his carved-marble beauty and Mischa suddenly understood that he had been seeing Sascha like this all along, but from behind a veil, stunted by the voice of his justifiably overprotective father. Before Mischa could even move Sascha was before him on his hands and knees with his ass in the air and the smell of his prolific slick was staggering: he hadn’t been wrong, he was ready for him.

Mischa groaned out loud.

“You should be illegal.”

“Well, you’re in luck, because I probably am, to you,” said Sascha, and despite the general mindset they both laughed, shameful little chuckles because he was right. “God, Mischa, please, I want your cock in me _now_.”

Instinctively Mischa reached out to slide one finger slowly along the cleft of Sascha’s ass, pushed gently inside of him, and he was shocked when liquid seeped out around his skin: Sascha was so wet he was overflowing. He slipped another finger in alongside his first, scissored the tips forward so he’d nudge where Sascha was most sensitive, and Sascha gave that sex-kitten groan again, threw his head back, ground his hips down against the mattress. His smell was shocking so close to the source and Mischa kept getting bulldozed by it, harder than he had ever been, dissolute. Mischa had never had sex with a man before but it didn’t seem like it would be much different, not with Sascha self-lubricating so readily like this. As he thought this Sascha said, 

“Mischa, you don’t need to open me,” with that wanton pant in his voice. “I’m wet enough from my heat, I told you, you’ll slide right in. I can’t take you touching me like this, I need you to fuck me right the fuck now. _Please_.” 

So Mischa, with his Catholic cross burning gold around his neck and his brother's filthy words resonating hot in his ears, withdrew his fingers from Sascha’s hole, pink and wet and open, gorgeous. He’d been more than aware of how soaked Sascha was around him but the sight of his own fingers gleaming with his brother’s slick did something to him, something that crooked heavy and low and shamefully arousing in the pit of his stomach. He got up on his knees, anchored himself with one hand on Sascha’s back and the other on his hip. When his palms came in contact with Sascha’s skin they both sighed out loud. Mischa was a one-track mind and all sensation but still, still, somewhere deep inside of him his moral strings sang, sorrowful like a violin, needing permission, even though it was something that had already been given, however hastily.

“Sascha, can I – ?”

“ _Yes_ ,” growled Sascha, bucking back so hard Mischa nearly lost grip on his sweat-layered skin, “I need you in me right _fucking_ now, Mischa, please. I told you, you can do whatever you want, just put it in.” 

Mischa looked down at his brother, ravenous and pleading and open before him, and let go of himself. He closed his eyes, stuck his cross in his mouth like he’d seen Sascha do so many times before. Lined the crown of his cock with Sascha’s entrance and brushed up against his cleft. When Sascha felt him nudging he swore out loud.

“ _Mischa_.”

“Okay,” said Mischa, and before his brain could throw verbal bullets at him he shoved forward.

There was absolutely no resistance; Sascha was soaking and Mischa didn’t have time to pull in even half a breath before he was encompassed to the hilt inside of Sascha’s body, warm constricting butter around the pulsing agony of his cock. Sascha threw his head back and sobbed out loud; the vocalization was almost inhuman in its low raw roughness and Mischa felt it in his nerve endings. He pitched forward over Sascha’s back and obscured his face in his shuddery shoulder, sucked a hot inhale through his nostrils, moaned because he couldn’t help himself, Sascha was so fucking tight around him and it felt like it had never felt before: not just _good_ , because all sex even if it was subpar was _good_. This felt _rapturous;_ this felt _correct_.

Sascha reached back for one of his hands and clenched it, turned his head, rucked backwards seeking friction. Mischa knew his cockhead had rubbed Sascha’s prostate because Sascha yelped out loud, a sharp heedless sound, immoral. He took Mischa’s hand and drew it around to his front, slapped Mischa’s palm down low on his belly, daring him.

Mischa took Sascha’s obvious bait, he was far enough gone now; he might as well get the entire experience. Without abandon he let his fingers trawl down the dark path of hair marking Sascha’s pelvis, wrapped his hand around the base of Sascha’s cock, stroked his fist up slow until he reached the head. Slicked his palm around Sascha’s slit until it was soaking and brought it to his mouth and licked from it. Sascha groaned, shameless, and Mischa was making noise too, low grunts of pleasure from his chest because Sascha tasted as good as he smelled.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sash.”

“Yeah,” panted Sascha, “Yeah, I know. You feel so fucking good, Meesh, holy shit. You make me – I feel so much better already, Jesus.”

Mischa opened his lips over Sascha’s collarbone, remembered that he wasn’t supposed to bite, withdrew, even though all of him was screaming for tongue and lips and teeth, taste and touch. He nudged up under Sascha’s arm again, breathed him from the back, felt himself shuddering. “Jesus Christ, how do you smell this good.”

“It’s a talent,” said Sascha, and they both laughed low, the humor welcome within such an overwrought situation. Sascha pushed back, ground down on Mischa’s cock, and Mischa knew he was asking him to move.

“Marcelo told me to be rough with you,” said Mischa as he withdrew, once, slow, only to the tip before he slid easily back inside Sascha’s puckering hole. Sascha moaned, wriggling mess, and Mischa held him still with a hand at the nape of his neck, finger trailing down to loop in Sascha’s chains. “Should I?”

Sascha’s breath was hissed air through tension-gritted teeth. “Jesus fuck. Yes. What else did he tell you?”

The diminutive part of Mischa that was _Mischa_ and not _Alpha_ could not believe that they were talking like this. He pulled back, marveling at the slick that flowed from Sascha’s body, how it gleamed on his shaft, before he thrust back in, harder this time. Sascha mewled. “Lots of things. That you take it rougher than anyone, supposedly.” He slid the finger wrapped around Sascha’s chain up through the curls at the nape of his neck, paused when Sascha shivered. “What can you tell me?”

Sascha laughed, harshly. “Not much, at the moment. That I want you to fucking pound me.”

Mischa’s responsive _mmm_ was ragged. “Yeah, he said you like that.” He fisted his hand gently in Sascha’s hair, drew his fingertips down the tender nape of his brother’s neck. “This is fucked, Sash. If we have to do this I at least want it to be good for you.”

There was a transitory, loaded pause. Then Sascha said, sounding as coherent as he’d been since the second wave had gripped him,

“Mischa, it’s already good and you’ve barely moved. It’s _so_ good. It’s not – it’s amazing for me.”

Mischa exhaled, heart howling, tribal drumbeat at his pulse points. His mouth was Sahara-parched. Speech was impossible so he put his forehead against Sascha’s spine and mapped his fingertips down and then he gripped Sascha’s lean upper arm and began to _move_.

Immediately Sascha whined, tossed his tawny head, that low blonde heightened by long days in the sun. Around Mischa’s cock his body burned, slick-hot, pulling him as deep as he could go, and Mischa was sightless, euphoric, primal. It was always his instinct to pound like this but he’d had to learn to be gentle with Evgeniya and it was never wholly satisfying, always wanting for intensity, something he’d struggled with at first until for lack of alternative he’d simply gotten used to it. Even with the other Omega he’d fucked through a cycle it hadn’t been as good as this. Sascha felt like nothing Mischa had ever experienced; he was groaning and swearing and he kept throwing his head and grinding back and _fuck_ he was gorgeous. Mischa raked nails down the rungs of Sascha’s spine, dug in when Sascha hissed _fuck, Mischa, yes_ , and then Sascha was reaching back for Mischa again and pulling him closer. When Mischa’s torso came flush with Sascha’s back the nerve ending activity was unprecedented. Mischa felt like he was being continuously electrified, minimal shock like the electrothermal therapy he’d had to have on his lower back when he'd strained it in his teenage years, pleasant pulsing radiating all over his skin. He reared back, drove against Sascha’s prostate, ground his hips up so Sascha would scream, and he did. One hand slid up to curl again in Sascha’s hair and instinctively Mischa yanked, pulling his brother’s head back so his throat was exposed. Sascha keened low, the green in his eyes hazed over, and the manic, unbidden urge to bite his skin shrieked through Mischa’s mind. His lower stomach was quaking with imminent orgasm and the thought that heat sex with his brother shouldn’t be half this good only made him harder. 

“Sash, Jesus, I’m not gonna last, you feel too fucking amazing,” he said, and Sascha moaned. He was babbling again, undone for lust.

“ _Mischaaaaaaaaa_ , fuck. Don’t stop,” he panted. “Cum if you have to, but don’t stop, you’re gonna knot. Fuck, Christ, Mischa, it’s so goddamn good. You’re fucking massive.”

Mischa shuddered; his edges smudged, cleared, smudged again. His body felt like universes, open pleasure emitting throughout his entire system, and he didn’t care if they talked like this now, wanted it, wanted Sascha’s groans filling the air like his scent, Mischa’s opium. “You feel incredible, Sash. Tight as fuck. Can’t stand when you moan for me like that.” He pressed his mouth to Sascha’s shoulderblade, dragged teeth up his skin, and Sascha stiffened. “What do you need? Do you want to cum or do you want me to knot first? Can you cum just from this?”

“Yes,” said Sascha, on an explosion of breath, “I mean, yes, I can cum from this, but you can knot first, and then I can – cum – ”

For Mischa had just reached around to stroke the length of his swollen, raging cock, and the sensation combined with Mischa’s cockhead massaging his prostate was overstimulation. Viscous spurts of precome were gushing from Sascha’s slit and he was keening almost constantly; no one else had ever made him feel like this in his life. 

“Okay,” said Mischa, raspy into Sascha’s skin, and he thrust hard into Sascha’s body, once, twice. He could feel himself swelling further inside Sascha and the sensation was foreign: he had so little experience with knotting; Alphas never did unless it was for Omegas in heat, but from what he remembered it was hyperstimulatory and draining in the kind of way that the most shattering of orgasms were. As it was he couldn’t imagine anything being more intense than this and as he mouthed along his brother’s spine he felt his entire body start tingling, his surest sign of climax. “Sash, I’m gonna – ” 

“Yes,” rasped Sascha, and turned his head; Mischa pounded into him and his stomach clenched in time with his toes and then he was coming, completely encompassed inside Sascha’s entrance, fierce as the storm that clutched the island in its incessant claws. His orgasm seemed neverending; his cock was pulsing and pulsing and Sascha was sobbing pleasured cries beneath him and on Sascha’s thigh their fingers braided and unbraided, stroking, little innocent connection. With his fingers pressing Sascha’s skin Mischa purred low and sighed out his name because he couldn’t help it, because Sascha was the one making him feel like he’d touched hands with divinity, and he should know. Even the rational part of himself was indebted forever; Mischa was terrified of how guilty he _didn’t_ feel, how this felt like everything he’d been missing his entire life, and he hadn’t even known it.

He shifted inside Sascha’s body, descending from his first orgasm even as he could feel his knot engorging, and Sascha groaned out loud, still trying to move back against him. Mischa, overly sensitive, yelped.

“God, Sash.” Low. “You’re fucking incredible.” 

“So are you,” gasped Sascha, and he reached back for Mischa’s hand, pressed it again to his lower belly. “Are you good? Is it too much if I move? Can you – ”

“Yes. Shh,” soothed Mischa, because he knew Sascha must be dying. He slid his fingertips down his brother’s surging stomach, over the crown of his cock, and Sascha seethed in his arms, body contracting around him. Mischa arched his back, shuddered. Gritted out, “Go slow and I can take it. Hold on. Can you sit back on me? I wanna try something.”

Obediently Sascha rose from his hands, rested back against Mischa’s body; Mischa wrapped an arm around his waist, pressed his face to Sascha’s shoulder so he could breathe through the wave of sensory overload that was rushing through him before he moved. Sascha’s scent was ripe now, different somehow, tinged with the air of something else, and Mischa knew it was because his needs were being fulfilled. Omega scent changed subtly throughout the heat cycle but it was always strong, strong, strong.

Mischa got his knees out from under him, one at a time so he could avoid aggravating Sascha’s sensitivities, and rested gently back, guiding Sascha’s body as he moved. He settled sitting straight up, Sascha impaled reverse cowgirl style on his cock so he could control the tempo. Mischa had never been so glad for his core strength; he could sit ramrod-straight without support at his back and still keep his arms wrapped around Sascha’s waist if he so wished, which he did.

Sascha was _whining_.

“Jesus. Mischa. You’re fucking huge, I can’t – I need to cum.”

“Yes, Sash, yes, of course you can, you don’t have to wait for me,” said Mischa, and he blustered for a moment, more clearheaded than he’d been since before Sascha’s second wave but still foggy from overwhelming sensation and thought and confusion. “Do you want me to – ?”

In answer Sascha pulled Mischa’s hand from where it clamped around his waist, dropped it between his thighs as he began to roll his hips on Mischa’s cock, already moaning for it again, shameless. Even after that earthshattering orgasm Mischa was so hard for him it hurt and he knew Sascha could feel him throbbing; the smirk that slashed his face was wanton, satisfied. He said through his ecstasy, head turned to the side, Mischa’s mouth automatically finding the side of his throat ( _don't bite don't bite_ don't bite), 

“Touch me. I want you to.”

So Mischa gripped Sascha’s cock, stroked him slow, let him settle into a rhythm before he found his own. Despite the tentative touch Sascha groaned out loud for it, his chest heaving as he breathed, wrecked. Again Mischa bared his teeth so they scraped Sascha’s skin; again, Sascha bared his neck for him. Mischa knew it was instinct and he couldn’t help it but he wanted to sink in, bite so hard Sascha’s skin would be marred with violent discoloration the next day. Sascha’s hand around Mischa’s tensed. He couldn’t lift himself or Mischa’s knot would catch, too swollen to pull out, but he was excellent at his rocking sort of push-pull, enough that they both felt friction. Mischa was seeing stars.

“How are you so good at this?”

Sascha exhaled a laugh, grinned with that cherry pout of a mouth. Mischa couldn’t stop watching the delicate line of his throat. “Practice.”

“Jesus Christ.” Mischa felt Sascha dripping down his hand; Sascha sighed rough and fucked down on him and Mischa’s eyes rolled back into his head. He knew he shouldn’t but he pressed an openmouthed kiss to Sascha’s neck and he tasted so good Mischa stopped breathing. Sascha’s breath glitched in his chest.

Against his skin Mischa said, “Practice makes perfect.”

“God, Mischa, lick me there,” said Sascha, moaning for Mischa’s breath on his skin, so he did, slid his tongue up the line of Sascha’s shoulder, sucked at his throat low until he knew there’d be a mark on his flushed skin. When Sascha growled he only sucked harder, the closest thing to a bite, all of him centered around Sascha bouncing gently up and down on his cock. The urge to get his teeth in was vampiric. On impulse he thrust gently up; between his fingers Sascha’s swollen skin was so slick Mischa almost lost his grip.

“So fucking hot, Sash.”

Sascha’s belly quivered. “I can feel you in my stomach, Meesh.”

 This was so arousing Mischa nearly blacked out; by pure reflex he rasped: “ _Fuck_ me.”

“I am,” said Sascha, and then Mischa sped up on his brother’s cock, gripped him around the waist so he’d fuck down harder. Sascha _sobbed_ out a groan and his body clenched and he erupted, reaching his climax with Mischa’s own, wave after wave surging through them like the turbulent tide. It was better like this, to cum together, and at last, at last, Mischa felt himself softening, reprieve after what seemed hours of incompletion. He could have been floating down from the moon on a ray of light for all the lightness that pitched inside of him, starfall, galactic. There was no sensation to which he could compare this: he felt like he’d unlocked something within himself that he hadn’t known existed.

Sascha was panting on top of him, lower stomach smeared with his own milky orgasm, but his color was high and his skin was warm and Mischa knew that, regardless of moral ambiguity and cringing taboo and the shame that might dog him forever, they had done the right thing regarding his little brother’s health.

Instinctively he nuzzled into Sascha’s fever-flush shoulder; Sascha pressed back against him, _mmm_ ed in his chest. Very, very quietly, chagrin and tremor in his voice, he said,

“Thank you, Mischa.”

Mischa felt like he should be thanking Sascha, too; it was a mess, just as Marcelo had said, but Sascha had just given him one of the greatest experiences of his life, and just to think those words made Mischa’s heart plummet with shame. He dropped a shaky kiss low on Sascha’s neck, tenderness over the bruise that flourished there. Sascha shivered.

“You’re welcome, Sash.”

For a moment they curled together, regaining breath and sanity, fighting the ignominy that started in their toes. Then Mischa said,

“Are you good if I pull out now?”

“Yeah.” Sascha sighed out loud, blew his curls out of his eyes, and lifted himself easily from Mischa’s lap, sat back on his haunches across from him. Again Mischa marveled at how refreshed he appeared, like he’d been given an IV and eaten a square meal, slept nine hours. The only remnants of his earlier distress were the faint gray semicircles beneath his eyes, but even they had faded to mere phantoms of their earlier pronounced gloom. Mischa bridged his eyebrows and Sascha flushed.

“What?”

“ _You_ look bright-eyed and bushy tailed.”

Sascha laughed in spite of himself. “Well. That’s what happens.”

“I know. I’m just relieved, that’s all,” said Mischa, and he was, overwhelmingly so. “You looked like death when you came out of your room.”

“I would have looked a whole lot worse after this wave if we hadn’t, you know,” said Sascha, eyes on his fingers where they picked at the blankets, and he was so achingly shy it splintered Mischa’s heart at the edges. He was abruptly terrified that he’d damaged Sascha beyond healing and his fingers went numb.

“Sash, are you ok? Did I hurt you?” 

“No. No, Mischa, you didn’t hurt me. I’m fine.” Sascha’s eyes flew up to land upon Mischa’s own, and they were sure in their conviction. “More than fine. I feel – amazing. Way better than I probably should.” 

“I do too,” said Mischa, voice gravelly, face open as he worried at his lower lip with his top teeth. “But – are you okay with what happened? Marcelo gave me permission, but – ”

He was aware that he was blustering but now that their overwhelming biological need was temporarily sated his throat felt constricted. In his head, constantly: _what if he regrets it_ layered with shame, shame, shame.

“Mischa,” said Sascha kindly, “stop.”

Mischa stopped.

“I didn’t think you were ever going to fucking get it,” said Sascha, and he laughed low, scooted closer so he could establish a point of contact between them. When their skin brushed the whole air around them started glowing; Sascha purred in gratification before he continued. “ _Any Alpha_? Come on.”

Mischa felt his face burning and knew he had gone the approximate color of a Christmas ribbon. “Okay, but given the circumstances, you could have been clearer.”

Sascha’s smile was soft. “I know. It’s not exactly easy to spell things out when you’re asking your big brother to fuck you through your heat.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Mischa ducked his head. “I thought about it as soon as they told us our flight was cancelled, but I couldn’t bring it up either. I figured you’d rather suffer the loss of your season than – you know.”

Sascha blinked. The blankets where he was pulling at them were starting to fray from the force.

“Remember when I offered you my scent,” he said, with effort to keep his voice from faltering. “The other night.”

Like Mischa could forget. “Of course.”

“That was like – ” Sascha searched for the words. “Like a pre-mating thing, almost. That was me telling you I was interested before my heat. I wasn't lying, you know, when I said it before. If I hadn’t seen you as a potential Alpha, I wouldn’t have done it. I wanted to know how you would react to my scent.”

“I think you knew how I would react,” said Mischa, heavily. “We both did. I’ve had to take suppressants around you since you hit maturity. Your scent is like a drug to me.”

“As yours is to me,” said Sascha. His voice was muted. “It’s easier for me, I think, because I’m on my meds about ninety five percent of the time. But they still don’t fully mask you sometimes, and that can get – difficult.”

“Sascha,” said Mischa, because he’d just thought of something Marcelo had said. “When I was on the phone with Marcelo, he said he’d never heard of Alpha-Omega brothers so weak for each other’s scents before, but he only knew because you’d told him. You’ve talked to him about me before?” 

“I talk about you all the time,” said Sascha, cutting his eyes away again, “but yeah, I told him. I asked him if it was normal, and he said he didn’t know, but he didn’t think so. I mean, do _you_ think it’s normal?”

Mischa had never given it much thought but subconsciously he was aware that this was because he was afraid to give the topic the light of day for fear of dwelling overmuch upon it. “I don’t know, Sash. I just know that Dad made me feel like a degenerate for losing it over you, so I tried to put it out of my head. No one ever explicitly told me if it was normal or not, you know? I just learned that I had to stay away from you when you were in heat.”

“I know. No one told me either.” Sascha shook his head. “Mum and Dad tried their best, but Jesus Christ.”

“Right,” said Mischa, and they both grinned ruefully at each other. “Speaking of Marcelo, I’m under strict instructions to call him, because I think he’s worried. You need to eat and hydrate, Sash.” 

“I know, I know,” said Sascha, and he rolled his eyes before falling into quiet solemnity again. “Um, Mischa, I also need, like. To be near you. Omegas need touch and proximity from their Alphas during heat, even between waves. I need that as much as I need food and water.”

Vaguely Mischa recalled this from Alejandra’s cycles; he hadn’t thought about it, had expected them both to be mortified and unable to speak to each other after what they had done, but all he wanted to do was pull Sascha onto his chest, feel the _skrtch_ of his pulse under his skin. “Sascha, whatever I can do to help you, you know I’ll do it.”

“Okay,” said Sascha, wanting nothing more than to climb on top of Mischa and curl into him, blanketed, but he was still so shy and he had no idea what he was doing so he just smiled and blinked and got up on his knees. When their physical contact ceased it felt like a Bandaid being ripped off and they both winced reflexively. “Come with me to the kitchen while I eat, then. We can both talk to Marcelo. Fuck, this is rough.”

“Uh, yeah.” Mischa snorted because when he was beyond himself his brain commanded hysterics as a coping mechanism and right now he was close to that. “You were right, though, he didn’t make it a big deal. Mostly.” 

“He called me a stupidass, didn’t he,” said Sascha, grinning as he hopped into his shorts; Mischa couldn’t stop looking at him and shut his mouth with a clack.

“Twice.” 

“Uh huh.” Sascha sighed. “Let’s go do damage control.”

So Mischa pulled on his shorts and together they traipsed out into the living room, where the noise of the storm – which they had both entirely forgotten in light of recent, more pressing events – was much more obvious, cymbals and photo-flashes and relentless rain against every surface of the house. Recklessness drew them both to the window and they stood peering out into the blind rage of the tempest, Mischa at Sascha’s back, hovering without knowing how to put hands on him. When another vicious pole of lightning clawed through the gray air Sascha shivered; instinctively Mischa reached out for him and pulled him half against his chest and it felt like cracking open a gold mine, like the exhilaration of surfing a tidal wave, euphoria.

Mischa whispered, “Normal?”

And, 

“No,” said Sascha, unsteady, but he didn’t move. As they stood there stormwatching and relearning how to exist with their shoulders stiff and their nerves singing Mischa wondered if touching Sascha would ever feel normal again.

He wondered if it ever really had.


	5. Chapter 5

Marcelo picked up on the first ring.

“So,” he said, voice all scoundrel and mirth, “did you do what I tell you? Pull his hair, let him ride you? Get him up against the wall and pound him?”

Sascha, who had been in the middle of draining a glass of sink water, did a literal spit-take; Mischa, mortified, felt his entire body start to burn from the inside out. “Shut the fuck up, Marcelo, you’re on speakerphone. Jesus Christ.” 

“Oh.” Marcelo’s voice held an enviable lack of shame. “Hey, Sash. You ok?”

Sascha was coughing, chortling, and Mischa was overwhelmingly gratified to see that he was scarlet from the chest up. “I was, until you started talking.” 

Marcelo chuckled. “Good, you _are_ okay. But _dios mio_ , Sascha, I TELL you to take extra meds. I tell you and you not listen and now look what you do to poor Mischa. He never look either of us in the eye again.” 

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” said Sascha, calm as lakewater despite his mottled color. “He’s not having any problems right now.”

Marcelo _mmmm_ ed in his chest and Mischa couldn’t detect the nature of it. “Mischka, you remember what we talk about? You didn’t, did you?”

_No matter what, you no bite him. Promise me._

“No, Marcelo,” said Mischa, as Sascha looked at him puzzled, “I didn’t.”

“Good,” said Marcelo, and the relief in his voice was thick as butter. “That’s good. Now you know what you need to do? Keep him fed, make him drink, stay close to him?”

“Yeah,” said Mischa, “yeah, I know. Do you want me to keep checking in with you? Both of our phones are on the low side and we still don’t have power.”

“Yes,” said Marcelo. “But you text unless you need me for something big. You not allowed to go radio silent. Me and Lukasz, we worry. Ok?”

Sascha’s face drained. “Marcelo…you didn’t tell him, right?”

“What you think I am, _idiota_?” Mischa and Sascha exchanged dubious eyebrow-arched glances and Marcelo laughed over the phone. “Don’t look at each other like that, I know what that silence mean. Listen. No one is going to know from me, ok? Promise.”

“Thank you, Marcelo,” said Sascha, and the emotion in his voice was genuine as a child’s laughter. “Thank you for everything.”

“I got you, Sash,” said Marcelo, and in Mischa’s chest stirred unfounded irritation. He shoved it away. 

“I’ll text you,” he said. “Thank you again. I’ll take care of him.”

“I know that, Mischa,” said Marcelo, kindly. He sounded as though he had heard the pinch of crossness in Mischa’s voice and understood all too well why it had occurred. “When you ever do anything else? Be safe.”

When Mischa hung up he leaned back against the island counter and braided his arms across his chest and avoided looking into Sascha’s eyes until Sascha said, amused,

“I mean, you _kind of_ did what he told you to do.”

Mischa exhaled, tense. “Shut up.”

“What? You have to admit it’s funny.” Sascha reached over, lifted Mischa’s chin with a finger. “I didn’t know he’d gone into such detail about my sexual preferences.”

“Yeah, he did, and I almost fucking came on myself thinking about it before I even got to you,” said Mischa, because what else could he be right now but honest. He reached up instinctively, cupped Sascha’s wrist, squeezed. Sascha puffed out a slow breath and shut his eyes.

“It feels so good when you touch me.”

“Yeah,” said Mischa, heavy, “yeah, it feels good for me too.”

He wanted to ask _is it like this with Marcelo_ ; couldn’t, because he knew what the answer would be and so many things had gone askew in such a short period of time and he couldn’t take further deviation from normalcy. He cleared his throat.

“Sash, you have to eat.” 

“Ugh.” Sascha made a face. “I know. I’m sick of bananas.”

“Have some peanut butter, then. Sit down, I’ll get it for you,” said Mischa, but Sascha just trailed him shadowlike to the cupboard, hovered at Mischa’s back, rested his chin on Mischa’s shoulder while he fumbled around in the back of the shelf. The smile that skipped across Mischa’s face when Sascha leaned into him was automatic.

“Needy.”

Sascha huffed in remonstration. “Fuck you.”

“Soon enough,” said Mischa, and turned his head; they grinned guiltily at each other because there was not a single other appropriate reaction here. They both knew exactly what they had done and what they were going to do and although neither of them could quite confess it to the other there was not as much shame present as there decidedly should have been, not by half.

“I just wanna be close to you, Meesh,” confessed Sascha truthfully, as Mischa finally located the peanut butter, handed him the jar. “I can’t help it.”

“Well, _that’s_ not unusual,” said Mischa, gentle in his teasing, and Sascha smiled, unscrewed the lid, scooped out a fingerful and licked from it.

“You need to eat too,” he said, “you’re burning as many calories as I am, if not more.”

Mischa watched Sascha suck peanut butter from his skin with rabid interest, hated himself. “I know. I’m gonna make something.” He turned back to the cupboard, withdrew a loaf of bread and a banana, busied himself with the simple task of sandwich compilation while Sascha stood distractingly near him. When Mischa held out a hand for the jar Sascha gave it to him wordlessly.

“Will you eat peanut butter bread?”

“Yes,” chirped Sascha happily, so Mischa made him a slice, folded it in half like he’d done for Sascha as a child, offered it to him.

“Drink some more water.”

“Demanding,” said Sascha, flippant, but he went to the sink anyway, poured them each a glass, sipped as he stood watching the rain bash the windowpane. That was his default right now, standing at the kitchen sink chasing squalls with a disconnected gaze. “This fucking storm.” 

“It’s a bitch,” said Mischa, biting into his sandwich, and without knowing he was going to do it he came to stand behind Sascha, hovering, protective instinct coursing through him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Mischa,” said Sacha, smiling; he knew that Mischa’s abruptly elevated concern was the Alpha taking over. “Are you?”

“If you are,” said Mischa promptly, and then he stopped. “Jesus. Is this what it’s like? I’ve never Alpha’ed so hard in my fucking life and we haven’t even – we only did it – we’ve only been through one wave.”

His awkwardness was endearing and Sascha set his glass on the counter, turned to him, cocked his head.

“Marcelo is kind of like this with me,” he said, cautiously. “But he says it’s amplified by a thousand with Lukasz.”

A kind of senseless dread screeched suddenly through Mischa’s stomach; there was the answer he was too afraid to seek earlier. His mouth drained of moisture and he knew it wasn’t from the peanut butter.

“Probably because they’re bond mates.”

“Probably,” said Sascha. He took a bite of bread and his voice was light but he was overwhelmingly aware of the fact that he had just had the most fulfilling sexual experience of his life; he might not entirely comprehend Alpha/Omega dynamics but he knew enough to understand that such gratifying occurrences usually only took place between an Omega and his or her bonded Alpha. Again his mind went slyly to the knowledge that he would long ago have chosen Mischa for his mate had it not been for their blood ties. 

For a moment they ate in silence, listening to the wind sing, a living creature wrapping and twisting around the house. Then Sascha said, in hopes of wrongfooting Mischa into telling the truth,

“What did Marcelo tell you not to do?”

“Oh,” said Mischa, hurried, embarrassed. He took his time chewing and swallowing, pulled from his water glass before he replied. “Um. Bite you.”

“Mmmm.” Sascha nodded once. “I could tell, you know. How much you wanted to.”

In spite of himself Mischa chuckled, once, soft. “Hard to miss, I guess.”

“Yeah. You kept scraping your teeth against my throat.” 

“Sorry,” said Mischa, because he didn’t know what else to say, and again that gentle smile quirked at the corners of Sascha’s lips. His wolf teeth glinted in the semi-dark.

“You don’t need to be.” 

He finished the last of his sustenance, licked traces of peanut butter from his fingertips. Mischa was hyperaware of the lush sensuality of his mouth and understood that this was likely to continue long past Sascha’s heat; he knew his brother as intimately as one person could know another now, and it had already changed things between them. He wanted to touch Sascha all over, pull him against his chest, keep him close and lull him until his next wave arose. Instead he said,

“What do you need, Sash?”

Sascha hummed.

“To take a shower. I feel like I haven’t bathed in weeks.” 

“I feel like that too, actually,” said Mischa, and he exhaled. “Okay, so I’ll go to mine and you can go to yours, and we’ll meet up in the middle…?”

But the look on Sascha’s face changed immediately from warm satiation to stricken worry and Mischa knew with a sharp kind of clarity that he had said the wrong thing.

“No,” said Sascha, panic warring with self-pacification in his lovely eyes. He reached out a hand and Mischa took it, compelled by instinct. “No, Mischa. I need to be near you right now, we can’t…it doesn’t feel good when you’re away from me.”

“Okay,” said Mischa quickly, hating that he had caused Sascha this distress, “okay. I’ll stay with you. I’ll do whatever you need, Sascha, just tell me. I don’t know what I’m doing here, you know? It – it wasn’t like this with Alejandra.”

“It’s not like this with Marcelo, either,” said Sascha frankly. “Like, I definitely _prefer_ to be near him during my heats, but if I’m not, it’s not that big of a deal. With you…I already know it will be terrible if you leave me alone.”

He was picking with his thumbnail at the fingers of his free hand, something he did when he was agitated, and Mischa grabbed his wrist so he’d stop, pulled it between them, cupped Sascha’s huge trembly palms to his chest.

“Normal,” he said, cutting his eyes to the side in artificial nonchalance, voice light attempting to break the shaky mood. “Totally normal.”

Sascha laughed; Mischa grinned in triumph, Sascha’s smile was everything he’d ever worked for in his life.

“Completely normal,” said Sascha, and he shook his head. “Seriously, though, Mischa. I don’t mean to be a needy bitch, but I just – it just feels really good when you’re near me. And when you touch me. It’s like – eating after I’ve been really hungry, or sleeping after I’ve been up for two days. Does that make sense?”

It did, because Mischa was experiencing the same confusing set of emotions; Sascha felt like _fulfillment_ and he didn’t know what to do with that. “It makes a lot of sense, actually.”

“Good, I’m not insane,” said Sascha. When he puffed his fringe out of his eyes with a forceful breath Mischa could see in his face that he had truly been worried about that possibility, and his stomach twinged.

“Sash, of course not,” said Mischa, sketching his forefinger down the length of Sascha’s face; Sascha’s eyes slid shut in pleasure. “This is really fucked up. But if you think for half a second that I’m not feeling exactly what you are, don’t. Because I am. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Sascha, shaky, and he turned his head and pressed his mouth to the back of Mischa’s hand and then he opened his eyes. They looked at one another for a grounding moment before Mischa said,

“Let’s shower before we run out of time. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, and together, subconsciously avoiding Sascha’s corner of the house for fear of being unduly attacked by the knockout smell of their sex, they took off in the direction of Mischa’s room.

Time was hard to distinguish with the storm but the light seemed to have taken on a dim quality that it had not contained earlier; Mischa squinted out the windows and tried to calculate the hour while Sascha turned the shower on. His best bet was early evening but it could have been months since Sascha’s heat had come on and he wouldn’t have been shocked, wouldn’t have even noticed. What was happening to them was what was classified as a _Major Life Event_ , one that called for a _before_ and an _after_. So entrenched in the moment was he, so invested in simply getting Sascha through this alive, that he couldn’t think about what this would change for them later. No pleasant feeling arose when his mind broached the subject.

“Mischa,” said Sascha, and he sounded almost _shy_. Mischa could not equate this timidity with his jokey, cocksure brother, all swagger with his smirking eyes, although he knew that that façade was a show that Sascha donned as a defense mechanism against the compressing weight of the success he’d enjoyed so early in life. That was the version of Sascha that Mischa could dismiss with a scoff, a well-chosen word, and he knew that this understanding was one of the reasons Sascha respected him so much: Mischa had the ingrained ability to see through him, transparent as the ocean water surrounding them, glass-clear. Mischa knew his little brother on a level that no one else even touched and therefore Sascha understood that he could be more vulnerable with Mischa than he sometimes even was with himself.

“Yeah, Sash.”

“Will you – ?”

But Mischa was already there, crossing the floor to him in a second so he could anchor a steady hand at the foundation of Sascha’s spine. When Mischa touched him Sascha’s face immediately relaxed. 

“Thanks,” he said, sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“Sascha, stop apologizing,” said Mischa gently. “It isn’t your fault. Come on, let’s get cleaned up.” 

Under the relentless frost of the water – there had been no power to warm it up for over a day now – they rinsed off together, fingertips fading to translucent blue, gasping for the temperature. It was quick but it was needed and when they hopped out, shaking, teeth clattering, Mischa felt better, cleansed, less like a heathen. They swathed themselves in towels and then Mischa wrapped an arm around Sascha’s freezing shoulders and guided him out to grab some clean clothes, although they both knew there was little point to getting dressed but for the sake of ceremony. It had been nearly an hour since Sascha’s last wave; the first twelve hours were always the most grueling, waves coming every hour and a half or so until the half-day mark broke. After that, so long as they had an Alpha to satiate their needs, Omegas could usually snatch two to three hours of peace, their bodies giving in to the need for sleep.

In the middle of Mischa’s bedroom they stood, clean and dry and anxious, and when Mischa couldn’t take the agitated quiet any longer he said,

“So what the fuck do we do now?”

Sascha snorted. “Well, we ate. Showered. Not much else to do but hang out until I need your dick again.”

Mischa choked on air. “You’re so good with words, Sash.”

“It’s a hidden talent,” said Sascha, and they grinned at each other, that same dopey, guilty smirk they exchanged every time a sexual reference was made.

“Not so hidden.”

“Not from you.”

Mischa said, “Is anything, anymore?” And Sascha looked at him and set his mouth and they both sighed.

“Meesh – how are we going to keep this from Mum and Dad?”

“I don’t know, Sash,” said Mischa grimly. “First of all, we need this storm to keep going for a few days, so we have an excuse to stay here until your heat ends. You obviously can’t travel like this, and if the weather clears, they’re going to want to know what’s keeping us.”

“Right,” said Sascha. “I mean, from everything we’ve heard, it looks like it’s going to stick around for a while, so that’s good. But what about, you know, when we get home? There’s no way they’re not going to know.”

“We’ll figure something out,” said Mischa, staunch. “We have to, and we will. Look, neither of us is clearheaded right now. Let’s just focus on getting you through your heat and we’ll talk about it when we’re not swamped with pheromones, okay?”

Sascha nodded, hesitated, and Mischa could tell he wanted to touch him. He, too, was constantly battling the instinct to draw Sascha against his chest, be as physically close to him as possible, but the responsible voice in his head kept giving him pause. He was fully unsurprised to realize that this voice sounded nearly identical to his father’s.

 _Mischa, get out of here, what’s wrong with you? That’s your_ brother.

Then he thought of what Sascha had said ( _Omegas need touch and proximity from their Alphas during heat, even between waves_ ) and how helpless he had looked standing by the shower by himself, how he’d hovered constantly at Mischa’s side since he’d come out of the wave, and pushed his father’s lingering disapproval angrily away. He’d taken on the responsibility of Sascha’s acting Alpha as soon as he’d touched him in the bedroom, and that included whatever Sascha might need, no matter how hard his upbringing might fight against it. Sascha’s eyes in the dark were massive and worried and skittish and Mischa understood that despite the nature of his need he was fighting it, too, fighting it because he was afraid of overstepping, of making Mischa uncomfortable.

“Sascha,” he said kindly, “come here.”

Something changed in Sascha’s eyes. Then he took a step closer and pressed his entire front flush with Mischa’s, curled down in upon him, wrapped long arms around Mischa’s ribcage under his armpits. When they touched the tension in Sascha’s body dissipated entirely; Mischa hadn’t known how strung-out he was until now and it dismayed him that he could feel it in Sascha’s _musculature_. He circled his arms securely around Sascha’s waist and Sascha groaned thick and low in his chest, all relief. Mischa understood. In the time it had taken them to relax into each other his heartbeat had regulated and his breathing had calmed; on a different level, he needed the physicality as much as Sascha did. He needed to give and Sascha needed to receive and the only way to solve that problem was simply to do it.

“Mischa,” said Sascha, wrecked, “is it supposed to feel this good?”

“I don’t know,” said Mischa helplessly, because it did, it felt amazing to be this close to Sascha, feel the in-out of his chest as he breathed, Sascha’s jaw tucked into Mischa’s shoulder and their hips matched and Mischa’s mouth lingering near the nape of Sascha’s neck. Because Sascha had paved the way for him, he asked, “Does it feel this good with Marcelo?”

“No,” said Sascha, voice rough. “Not even close.”

Like an instinct Mischa pulled him in tighter, ducked his face into Sascha’s skin, breathed him in like the seasalt air.

“You still smell,” he said, “so amazing. God, Sash. So amazing.”

“So do you,” said Sascha, engine purr in his voice, and Mischa wondered how much time was left before his brother’s next wave. Despite their best efforts the air in the house was still permeated with the underlying scent of heat sex and he hated himself for how sharply it stirred his blood, how keen his body was for Sascha to come on again, how much he wanted to once more bury himself within the soft buttery wetness of his body. He was trying to think of this within the parameters of _have to_ but if he was honest with himself it was feeling a lot more like _want to_.

*

They were sitting together in front of the floor-to-ceiling living room windows, observing the way the storm-wind yanked at the trees, drinking Powerade with Mischa’s arm draped comfortably around Sascha’s shoulders, when Sascha hissed in a breath. Under Mischa’s touch his skin went suddenly, unexpectedly hot, and when Mischa took a breath, the familiar thick-raw scent of Sascha’s musk pervaded his nostrils. Instantly Mischa was hard as a rock.

“Sascha, fuck.”

“Mmmm.” Sascha rolled his head on his shoulders, cracked his neck, bared his teeth. It was astonishing how quickly he went from needy and sweet to wickedly sexual; now that he had established Mischa as his acting Alpha, he could stop fighting his own nature and relax into it, allow himself to _be_ , and oh, he was. He lowered his head into Mischa’s shoulder, lips on skin, slid up so he could breathe in Mischa’s ear; Mischa growled, felt his pupils go punched out with lust. So close like this Sascha’s pungency was devastating and they weren’t supposed to be intimate like this, weren’t supposed to do anything beyond the realm of Sascha’s basic need, but fuck if Mischa didn’t want to lay Sascha flat and hold him down and get his mouth on every inch of his body.

 _We should not,_ screamed his rational mind, _do that_. 

But the part of him that was becoming more and more dominant with each rich breath of Sascha’s scent roared back, _yes. We should_. 

“I think I need you now,” said Sascha, rusty voice in Mischa’s ear, and Mischa clamped his hand down on Sascha’s thigh and turned his head and for half a thunderous instant their foreheads brushed with their lips parted breath coming hot and it was shocking how wrong it didn’t feel. Sascha’s fingers were trailing warm down Mischa’s stomach, landing hooked in the waistband of his shorts, and with a complete absence of fear he pushed the heel of his palm down against Mischa’s cock. Mischa sucked breath through his teeth, centered himself, caught Sascha’s wrist.

“Do you.”

“Yes,” said Sascha, whispery voice, and then he shuddered and his shoulders went straight and tense and just like that Mischa was drowning in his scent again, no air, only pheromones. He got to his feet, pulled Sascha up, led him staggery to his room, laid out just as they had left it, mess of sheets and the dense heavy smell of sex in the air. Completely involuntarily Mischa _mmmm_ ed in his throat and Sascha pressed up against his back; Mischa could feel him, how hard he was. His breath on the back of Mischa’s neck was a hand between his legs.

“Bed,” said Mischa, “now.”

Sascha obliged, climbed onto the mattress quick and lithe, and Mischa pursued him, hunting his scent. In less than half a minute they were both unclothed and Mischa had the presence of mind to think how unnecessary it was for them to even be wearing anything while Sascha was in heat before Sascha was on his hands and knees again, open, ready. He was achingly gorgeous and Mischa sighed out loud, hand going automatically to wrap around his own cock, already wet at the crown.

“God, Sascha.”

“You know, Mischa,” said Sascha loudly, without even looking around, “I don’t know why you’re touching yourself when you could be fucking me into this mattress right now. Get the fuck over here.”

In spite of the situation, Mischa, surprised, laughed aloud. “De _man_ ding.”

“You’re damn right I’m demanding,” said Sascha, and turned so he could look into Mischa’s face. His eyes were sharp jade, pupils massive and black for lust, lower lip bitten nearly raw. “I’m on fire literally everywhere, Meesh, you don’t know. I need you, I need your cock, I need you in me now. Please. You don’t know what it feels like.”

Just listening to him speak like that Mischa’s cock was throbbing. He rose to his knees, reached over, slipped a thumb in the cleft of Sascha’s ass. Again the lack of resistance astonished him; Sascha whined, pressed back into his touch.

“ _Mischa_.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I have to check you, I don’t want to hurt you,” said Mischa apologetically. He situated between Sascha’s legs and clamped one hand on either side of his hips, lined his cockhead with Sascha’s entrance, buried himself with one swift forward stroke all the way inside of his brother’s trembling body. They both groaned aloud and Sascha tossed his tawny head and Mischa gripped him so hard he knew he’d leave fingerprints, bruises blemishing Sascha’s perfect pale skin.

“God. Jesus fuck. You feel so fucking good,” spat Sascha, and Mischa kissed the middle of his spine, blazing.

“It’s never been like this, Sash.”

“No,” said Sascha, panting, “not for me, either. Fuck, Mischa, fuck, I need you to pound me. Now. Please.” 

Mischa groaned for that, drew away so only the crown of his cock was still hidden in Sascha’s body. Then he ground his knees into the mattress and plunged back inside, all sensation and hazy vision and need. Again, there was no need to go slow; Sascha was as ready for him as he’d ever been, and he was keening and whining and reaching back for Mischa’s hand just as he’d done the first time Mischa had fucked him. This time he brought Mischa’s hand to his swollen mouth and sucked a finger in, white vacuuming heat around his skin, and Mischa was out of control.

“Fucking end me like that, Sash, fuck.”

“That’s the point,” said Sascha, deviant grin in his raspy voice, and Mischa slammed his hips forward so Sascha yelped out loud. He lived and died by the noises Sascha made and each time he opened his mouth Mischa wanted to taste the sound that spilled forth from it.

“What, you want me to be done already?” Mischa pressed his torso along Sascha’s spine, mouth at his neck again, teeth out skinning at his brother’s throat. Sascha leaned his head to the side, offering him vast open real estate, and Mischa hissed in frustration.

“Never,” said Sascha, vehement, and he bucked back. “God, Mischa, _fuck_ this is so fucking good, you’re huge.”

Mischa was not above having his ego stroked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sascha ground down on him, moaned when Mischa’s cockhead inevitably found his prostate. “You make me feel full as fuck.”

“Christ.” Mischa kissed him under his ear; Sascha shivered. Around Mischa’s cock his body was already contracting and Mischa was losing it, singleminded, blinking away the stars in his eyes. “Where did you learn to talk like this?”

Sascha rumbled in amusement. “I’m in heat, Mischa. I have no filter.”

“Yeah, well, keep it up, cause it’s working.” Mischa ran his huge hands down Sascha’s sweat-glinted chest, his torso, found his cock and stroked him, and Sascha gave that sanity-ending moan again, the most sexual sound Mischa had heard in his life, siren song engineered solely for him. This time when he opened his mouth against Sascha’s shoulder his teeth grazed skin more sharply than they had before and Sascha gave this ragged little _mmmmm_ in response and Mischa swore.

“God damn, Sash.”

“Fuck, so hot when you swear,” said Sascha, voice rent through. When Mischa bulled his head up under Sascha’s armpit his scent was murderous, so strong Mischa was immediately high from it, and the more he inhaled the less control of himself he kept. His mind screamed _bite,_ screamed _claim,_ screamed, _mine_.

“Sascha, fuck,” he gritted out, “wanna bite you so bad.”

Sascha only keened in response; when Mischa pushed himself up so he could watch his cock thrusting in and out of Sascha’s body Sascha rolled his hips back in such a way that Mischa couldn’t think for need. His little brother was gorgeous, wanton, completely shameless as he moved beneath him, only existing now to receive what he needed, and Mischa couldn’t imagine how they hadn’t done this before, how he’d resisted for this long. His orgasm was swelling within him, his balls high and rigid, and again he could feel his knot beginning to form.

Sascha felt it, too; he threw his head again, groaned out loud, scenting so heavily Mischa’s eyes circled back in his head for it. “How do you keep getting fucking bigger?” His voice was a wreck, a purr, a sob all at once, and when Mischa bent over him and choked out a cry into his ear he reached back and clamped his hand over Mischa’s own, squeezed his fingers through his orgasm, ruining him from the inside out. Around Mischa’s cock his body constricted automatically, milking his brother for all he was worth, the angle of Mischa’s thrust stroking inside of him until he cried out with the force of it.

Mischa’s voice in his ear: _so perfect Sash you’re so fucking tight so gorgeous fuck fuck fuck_ and he was coming and coming and it felt _so fucking good_ and Sascha was incoherent, whining every time Mischa’s cock struck that perfect angle inside of him. When Mischa collapsed against his back, head dropped into the valley between his shoulder and throat, Sascha bounced once on his dick, needy. Mischa shuddered, overly sensitive.

“Sash. Jesus. I’ve got to make you cum first next time, this isn’t fair.”

“No.” Sascha turned his head, nuzzled into Mischa’s hair, still panting from the stimulation. “I like coming with you. Mischa, your fucking cock, you feel so good, I need you to – ”

“I know,” soothed Mischa, shaking his head to clear the ridiculous haze that had settled into the crevices of his brain, “Hold on, let me sit back again so you can – ”

Sascha waited impatiently while Mischa resituated himself, maneuvering as carefully as he could so as not to hurt Sascha. When he was settled in a sitting position again he reached forward, intending to pull Sascha back, but Sascha said, voice a ragged desperate mess,

“You good? Can I move?”

Mischa said, “yes,” confused, and then slowly, deliberately, Sascha turned in a half circle, still impaled upon Mischa’s cock, the knot still throbbing, pinning them in place. Mischa was only half recovered but through the fugue he understood how devastatingly sexual it was, what Sascha was doing, rotating on his dick like that. Effortless, like he’d done it a hundred times. And then, as Mischa’s pheromone-doped brain successfully overcame _that_ thought, he realized exactly what was happening.

Sascha was riding him.

 _Let him ride you_ , Marcelo had said, _he go crazy for that_.

Well, Mischa thought, Sascha wasn’t the only one going crazy.

As they were now it was a thousand times more intimate, Sascha’s cock shoved insistently against Mischa’s stomach, precome pearling at his slit before it spilled easily over. Before, both of them on their knees, animalistic, Mischa could still convince himself that this was just a service that he was performing for Sascha, that he was no more than helping him through his heat so Sascha’s season wouldn’t end before it began. He knew, of course, that this was absolutely ridiculous – he’d never been driven more wild by another person in his life, never even fathomed that sex could feel like it did with Sascha, as though he was no longer _I_ but _we_ – but the part of his mind that had been melded and twisted and hammered into shape by Alex’s relentless insistence needed something to hold on to and this was inevitably where it had landed. Now Sascha’s breath was coming hot on Mischa’s face and his eyes were every hue of black that had ever existed and it was here that he could not lie to himself, because the truth was that Mischa wanted everything, wanted Sascha’s lips his tongue his teeth, wanted to watch him roll his hips on Mischa’s cock as he groaned with abandon on top of him. But most of all, most of all. Mischa wanted to bury his lips in Sascha’s throat and mark him, because Sascha belonged to him. 

“ _Mischa_ ,” groaned Sascha, completely helpless, and Mischa gripped Sascha’s shoulders and dropped his head into the frantic in-out movement of his brother’s chest. Already he knew he could go again because his cock was _pulsing_ within Sascha’s constricting warmth and despite the fact that his seed was mixing with Sascha’s slick as it dripped out of him around the base of Mischa’s dick it felt like he hadn’t had an orgasm in days.

“Move, Sash. Take what you need.”

And then that hazey dream of watching Sascha fuck himself on Mischa’s cock came true because Jesus Christ if Sascha didn’t know how to _move_. Dark blonde head tilted back on his fae-boned shoulders, hips twisting slow as he ground down into Mischa’s lap, never moving enough to test the knot, but he didn’t need to because what he was doing with the minimal space he was given was obscene in its perfection. With each minimal shift Mischa’s cockhead struck his sweet spot and between them Sascha’s dick was twitching almost incessantly and from the way he was moaning, sexual noise and vulgarity mixed flawlessly with Mischa’s name, Mischa knew Sascha was close. The tension in his own stomach was mounting again and Sascha was killing him, he was faultless and his hole was so goddamn tight and his smell was _heroin_ and Mischa couldn’t handle it anymore, couldn’t master himself, the persistent nagging of Marcelo’s _you no bite, remember_ fading at last. Unthinkingly he ducked his mouth into the glassy skin at Sascha’s throat, opened his lips, and without consciously knowing what he was doing he sank his teeth into Sascha’s neck and began to suckle, owning him, _claiming_ him, and he knew it was right because immediately Sascha began to keen, _yes Mischa yes_ as his gyratory pace increased. As Mischa bruised him, obeying only his deepest primal instincts, Sascha shoved a greedy hand between them and began to jerk off against Mischa’s stomach. 

Mischa’s first reflex was to stop him, take care of him while he rode, but Sascha’s skin tasted like some kind of otherworldly honey and he couldn’t stop, not until Sascha was incoherent from it. Against his brother’s skin Mischa growled, “ _mine_ ,” and Sascha sobbed out, “ _yours_ ,”

And then Mischa pulled back with the flavor of his brother still sharp musk on his lips and slid his hands roughly up Sascha’s throat to frame his face.

Drawn out of his trance, Sascha looked down at him, and without even a scrap of hesitation he pressed his forehead firmly to Mischa’s own. Mischa’s breath became Sascha’s breath, Sascha’s breath melding with Mischa’s, and Mischa had never been so close to another person in his entire life, knotted inside of Sascha while he rode him wantonly, rubbing one out against Mischa’s belly, daubing him heavily with his pre-seed. Slow and precise and achingly sensual Sascha impaled himself again and again on Mischa’s cock and this time when they came, once again in near unison with their stomachs quaking from the force, they were looking into each other’s eyes, both hissing the other’s name, Sascha’s body convulsing around Mischa’s knot. The fresh bruise Mischa had bitten shone purple on Sascha’s skin and Mischa had never known the definition of the word _intimate_ before this moment.

Sascha kept his forehead melded to Mischa’s while they waltzed down from their sky high, breathing together in rhythm, Mischa’s hands still cupping Sascha’s face. Sascha’s orgasm was warm smeared across Mischa’s belly. Still they had not kissed, although the urge was strong, strong, strong, and distantly Mischa knew it had amplified substantially because of the bite. Gently Sascha put his fingertips to the tender skin at his neck and Mischa winced, knowing that he had been disobedient, that he had broken the only rule that Marcelo had set for them. Their eyes met and understanding passed between them; Mischa had been made stupid by his lust before but now he understood why Marcelo had been so insistent about the no-biting rule. Bites from an Alpha to an Omega during heat sex intensely increased the risk of forming a bond, and once bonded, it could be very, very difficult – sometimes impossible, without extreme health risks – to come back from that. What was more, Mischa had bitten Sascha on an extremely vulnerable spot, close to his pulse point, and from the looks of the mark it was no small thing.

They were so, so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was 100% that the last chapter I wrote was the dirtiest I've ever done but honestly I think it might be tied with this one. They really do like to cause trouble, don't they?


	6. Chapter 6

“You bit me,” said Sascha in stupefaction, and Mischa’s stomach plummeted. 

“I know, Sash,” he said, apologetically. “I couldn’t help it. You smelled so good and I just – did it.”

When Sascha looked at him his eyes were wrought with low amusement and Mischa hadn’t known what he was expecting but it wasn’t that.

“Well,” said Sascha, lifting one shoulder, “I didn’t exactly make it easy for you, did I?” 

Again his color was all high health; he looked like a jogger returning from a jaunt on a cold morning, dark flush in his cheeks, prettily illuminated eyes. Behind the freshness, however, Mischa saw exhaustion: Sascha had been through three exceedingly intense waves in a very short period of time, and Mischa recognized that no matter how high heat emotions were, the fact that they had chosen to sleep together must be taking an emotional toll on him; when Mischa himself he had a moment of lucidity to dwell, the knowledge roared back to drain him anew. What they were doing, how it was going to influence their relationship for the rest of their lives, how they were going to hide it from their family, how he was going to hide it from _Evi_. He hadn’t thought of her, not since they’d been on the phone together eternities ago, and the lack of self-reproach that he felt right then both perturbed and flabbergasted him.

“No,” he said, twisting his mouth. “You didn’t. But I shouldn’t have bitten you all the same.”

Sascha’s face as he watched Mischa’s expression was all sickened fear.

“I didn’t mean to make it worse on you. I can’t help myself, either, Mischa. My body wants what feels good during a heat, and right now that’s _you_ , whatever you’ll give me.”

Mischa looked at him, read his apprehension. “No, Sash, no, I’m not mad at you.” He slid both hands up through Sascha’s hair and Sascha closed his eyes, purred in contentment. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just weak, I guess. I can’t control myself around you.”

Relief surged across Sascha’s face and Mischa’s stomach wrenched with guilt. Omegas tended to be quite emotionally delicate during their heats and this was no exception: he had to be very careful how he behaved here because right now Sascha was marked **FRAGILE HANDLE WITH CARE**.

“Mischa, I’m tired,” said Sascha suddenly, and indeed, the strength of his voice had waned substantially. “I need to sleep or I’ll be wrecked after my next wave. Will you stay with me?”

“Of course,” said Mischa, and carefully he wrapped his big hands around Sascha’s hips, lifted him tenderly from his lap, freeing his own softened cock as he did so. Orgasm fluid and slick dripped obscenely from Sascha’s entrance and the smell was like walking into an opium den, instant euphoria. Mischa felt like he’d been high for a straight day. “Do you want to stay here or go to my room?” 

“Here,” said Sascha, yawning hugely. “We might as well, I’m probably going to need to fuck again as soon as I wake up. Will you bring me a towel to clean off? I’m too tired to shower right now.”

“Yes. Get comfortable and I’ll be right back,” said Mischa. Purely by instinct he leaned over, nuzzled Sascha’s forehead, licked possessively over his bitemark, and Sascha shuddered.

“Mmm.”

“That bruise looks good on you, Sash,” said Mischa, boldness led by something primal and deep, and Sascha smiled, scooted up to situate on the vast array of cotton-white pillows.

“Well, obviously it does. You gave it to me.”

Mischa tried not to smile too much about that as he set out to the bathroom to scavenge for a clean towel. He found two, used one to wipe his stomach clean of Sascha’s copious orgasm, and by the time he walked back into the room he found his brother dozing sweet and sleepy on his side. So exhausted was he that he hadn’t even bothered to get under the covers and the sheer length of his lissome cheetah body astonished Mischa. He climbed into bed beside him, freshly assaulted by their lethal concoction of scent, and touched his shoulder.

“Sash.”

“Hmmph.”

“Here’s your towel.” Mischa draped it over Sascha’s hipbone.

“Mmm. Thanks.” Sascha’s eyelids flickered; lazily he cleaned himself up and Mischa smiled just to watch him, how hastily the fatigue had overtaken him, how slow it made his movements. “Meesh?”

“Yeah?” 

“It’s okay that you bit me. I’m not mad at you, either. Not at all.” His gaze rested openly on Mischa’s own. “You held out a lot longer than I probably would have.”

Mischa smiled, but his face was anxious. “Willpower.” 

“Impressive.” Sascha’s eyes were closing, but he said again, “Meesh?”

“Yeah?”

“You can say no,” said Sascha cautiously, “but will you cuddle me?” 

In answer Mischa slid forward and wrapped his limbs around Sascha’s body, let him tuck his sex-mussed head under Mischa’s chin, and it wasn’t two minutes before they were both lost to reality, gripping each other, enmeshed in dreamless slumber. Too tired to check their steadily dying phones, too out of it to comprehend the savagery of the storm or worry about the incessant lack of power, the need for sustenance. They had done enough upkeep earlier. Now it was time for a genuine recharge.

*

Mischa woke up with Sascha shivering against him, eyes open, pained expression on his face. Immediately Mischa recognized the exacerbation of his scent in the air and his veins went hastily live, forked with the shock of Sascha’s current, alert. With one big hand he swiped the hair out of Sascha’s glitter-green eyes, round in observation.

“How long have you been up?”

“Uh.” Sascha shrugged, teeth clenched. He reminded Mischa of a lycanthrope fighting against the natural pull of a fully waxed moon. “Not long. Maybe ten minutes. It’s not too bad yet, I was gonna try to let you sleep until I couldn’t.”

Mischa shook his head, gripped the nape of Sascha’s neck, possessive. “Sash, don’t do that. In the future, get me up as soon as you need me, okay? When I smell you it’s like I did a line of coke. I’m awake.”

Just below his breath Sascha chuckled. “Can’t tell if that’s a compliment.”

“It’s me telling you I don’t need five extra minutes in the morning when you’re ready to go,” said Mischa firmly. His hand traipsed down Sascha’s ribcage, along the stake of his prominent hipbone, between them to where his cock was once again painfully swollen. “ _It’s not too bad?_ Sascha.”

“Okay, it is,” said Sascha, voice wavering, “but I know you need sleep and I – ah – ”

His expression twisted; eyes closed mouth in a grimace, and when he looked at Mischa again the sheer primal nature of his heat had slammed down over his face like a cage, the scent of him strengthened a hundredfold. It was obvious that there would be no more holding out on himself for Mischa to sleep, this newest of waves had arrived, and Sascha’s biological instinct had just taken command.

Mischa tried to stop himself from moaning out loud, failed.

“Your fucking _smell_ , Sash.”

“And yours,” sighed Sascha. He dropped his head so he could nose up under Mischa’s armpit, scent him, the raw rough smell of an Alpha stimulated by an Omega. “God damn, fuck me.”

“If you insist,” said Mischa, and quickly he scrambled up so he was situated against the headboard, legs in front of him, already hard enough to drill holes. Sascha followed his movement and straddled him like a champion and when he impaled himself effortlessly upon Mischa’s cock they both cried out, relief _tangible_ on Sascha’s face. He said, strangled,

“ _Yes_ ,”

And Mischa lowered his mouth to his brother’s neck and began to suckle gently on the bitemark he’d placed there several hours before.

“Oh, god,” groaned Sascha, “God, Mischa, yes, right there, don’t stop that. Feels perfect when you do that.” His hips were already rocking rhythmically and Mischa couldn’t breathe for how deep inside of his brother’s heat that he was buried and he had no idea how their sex kept getting better than that first paradise time but it _did_ and he never wanted to stop. He let Sascha ride at his preferred pace, bucked up into him every few strokes so Sascha would whine and compress himself around Mischa’s cock, and he couldn’t see for pleasure, all he knew was burning sensation, the feel of Sascha’s ragged skin beneath his lips, permeated with pheromones so strong they held flavor. When he’d paid suitable attention to his first bruise he relocated further down the line of Sascha’s throat, the cavernous space just above his collarbone, and as he sank his teeth into this fresh snowy patch of skin Sascha’s responsive whine was heavy with pleasure.

Somewhere within himself Mischa was aware that bestowing multiple bites upon Sascha’s body was probably not wise. Not a single part of him cared at all, not when Sascha was going so obviously wild for it, fucking himself expertly down on Mischa’s slowly-growing cock, sighing like a kitten, appearing for all the world as though he’d been destitute for months and was finally getting the fulfillment he needed. Sascha’s cock was slapping Mischa’s stomach with every downward thrust and he was once again to the point of making that unconscious stream of sound, a lot of _fuck_ and _yes God yes right there_ and most of all _Mischa, Mischa, Mischa_ like a war chant, a love spell, a mantra, and maybe it was all three because Mischa was hypnotized by his voice. Low and broken and sensual, honest in its fervency, and Mischa would never again be able to hear Sascha speak his name without remembering this moment.

It didn’t bode well for the future. He didn’t dwell on it, wasn’t capable of negative emotion, because Sascha was consuming him, all of him, and there was only room in his head for what they were doing and how Sascha felt and tasted and smelled and _moved_. When he’d bitten a satisfactory stamp into this new patch of skin he withdrew and lapped gently over both of the bruises he’d left behind and Sascha keened for it.

“It feels,” he panted, “so good when you bite me.” 

“I can do it again,” said Mischa, raw, no restraint left within him, “if you really want me to.”

Sascha laughed, a sarcastic thing that Mischa loved, because it meant Sascha knew he was playing now. Comfortable, because how much more comfortable could they get than with Mischa so close to knotting for a third time inside of him, his mark left upon Sascha’s beautiful unflawed throat.

“You know what I want.” 

“Seems that way.” Mischa mouthed up Sascha’s neck to the underside of his jaw, up along his ear canal, where he licked inside. “But remind me.”

“Want you to bite me again,” moaned Sascha, incapacitated for Mischa’s tongue. “Want you to – ah – cum in me.”

No matter how old Mischa was, no matter how many times he heard that sentence in his life, he would always lose his goddamned mind for it; it was the dirtiest thing anyone could say to him, and hearing it from Sascha in heat would be the singlehanded reason for his ruin. He shuddered and Sascha clutched him and when their eyes met Mischa knew that Sascha even in the throes of delirium was aware of the effect those words had. His eyes were demonic.

Mischa grabbed Sascha around the hips and got up on his knees and threw him down flat on the bed, yanked Sascha’s legs up so his ankles rested on Mischa’s shoulders, drove into him while Sascha rolled his head on his neck and _groaned_. It was like this that Mischa came, violently, Sascha’s name spilling hot from his tongue and Sascha sighing his broken, powerless _yes_ fuck _yes_ like a porn star. One hand gripping the back of Sascha’s knee, the other locked with his brother’s between them, seizing each other like it was life or death, and maybe it was. After he’d desensitized he rolled his hips slow so every minuscule movement crooked at Sascha’s prostate and when Sascha came it was hard and hot and prolonged and he was _fevered_. Mischa watched forceful ropes of cum erupting like a fountain from Sascha’s cock and had time to think abstractly that he’d never seen anything so hot in his life before his second orgasm overtook him.

This time when they cleaned up Mischa brought Sascha to the shower and soaped him all over, taking special care with his angry vivid bites, and listening to Sascha purr happily for his touch he felt something in his chest stir, a pleasant little tug that felt like nothing he’d experienced before.

Curled together under blankets on the couch they ate their customary little feast of bananas and bread and peanut butter, fruit in a bowl, Powerade and water. Mischa texted Alex and Evgeniya; Sascha texted Irina. They both texted Marcelo and neither of them admitted to the fact that Mischa had now bitten Sascha twice. Their phone batteries were in the red. Calamitous seemed the situation, but neither of them were as concerned as they should be, and they both knew it. It was easy to stave off miserable emotion just now; all they had to do to release a fresh wave of endorphins was hold on to each other.

When, after food and a few more hours of dead sleep, Sascha’s next wave arrived, Mischa picked him up bodily and pounded him against the bedroom wall, relentless, steadying him using his astonishing strength. Sascha’s gazelle legs twined around him, long fingers in Mischa’s hair, nearly mute from pleasure but for the little wrenched gasps that poured from his throat with each stroke of Mischa’s cock. By the time they had finished Sascha was sporting two fresh bitemarks, this time on the opposite side of his throat, and he was beautiful and glowing. When they paraded in their gym shorts into the bathroom, on tiptoe like there was anyone else there for them to disturb, Mischa was incredulous to glimpse himself in the mirror; it was not only Sascha who appeared to be at the peak of health.

“Fuck,” he said out loud, walking closer to his reflection, pressing at his own ruddy cheeks, and Sascha gave a half-smile. 

“You look great, Meesh.”

“Yeah, Sash,” said Mischa, slowly, “so do you.”

“Guess we’re good for each other,” said Sascha, attempting to keep his voice light, but Mischa’s stomach was suddenly heavy, and not in a pleasant way.

“We should be exhausted, Sascha.”

“I am,” said Sascha, and it was the truth. “But I still feel great. I’m not suffering through my heat without an Alpha. You’re saving my life right now, Meesh.”

Mischa turned to look at him; Sascha’s eyes were honest and sweet and the apprehension in Mischa’s blood abated temporarily.

“You really feel okay? You’re not dying of hunger, or thirst? Your bruises don’t hurt?” 

“No,” said Sascha, touched amusement lingering around his eyes, his mouth. “You’re fucking the shit out of me, you’re taking care of me between waves, you’re feeding me and staying near me and attending to my every beck and call – ” 

“Don’t get used to that,” warned Mischa, but he was grinning.

Sascha rolled his eyes at him.

“I was _going to say_ ,” he said, tart, “that you’re doing amazing, Mischa. Really. You’re going above and beyond. I owe you everything.”

“Uh,” said Mischa, flushing hotly, pleased beyond formulating a proper response, “no, you don’t.”

“I do,” said Sascha softly. “You saved me from agony. You saved my season, even though –you’re, you know, my brother. I can never repay you for that.”

“I think you’re repaying me pretty well, to be honest,” said Mischa, looking away as his high color intensified, his voice a mutter. On the countertop his fingernails were clacking incessantly, anxious.

Sascha came to stand by him, leaned his hip sideways on the sink, smirking. With a trace of that familiar overconfidence he threw his head so his fringe swept out of his face.

“Oh, you do.”

“Yeah, I do.” Mischa was _mortified_.

Sascha knew what he was getting at; knew why he was embarrassed. “Nothing I’m doing even comes close to what you’re doing for me, Mischa.”

“Well,” said Mischa, because he knew his brother and he knew that Sascha was going to dog him until he clarified, “I’ve had the best sex of my life with you by a _considerable_ margin over the past day and a half, and it just seems to keep getting better, so. I think you’re doing okay.”

In the dimness of the bathroom Sascha’s eyes were glittering. He was standing so close the ends of their toes were nearly touching.

“Me too, Mischa. I didn’t know I could feel like that until you.”

“Me neither, Sash,” said Mischa in a rush, relieved to hear Sascha speak it aloud because he’d known he wasn’t imagining the absolutely earthshattering quality of their sex but it was such an incredible weight plucked from his shoulders to have Sascha confirm it aloud. It made the guilt lurking just behind all of the euphoria lessen just enough that he could bear it and for that he knew he’d be forever grateful, whatever happened.

“You asked if my bruises hurt,” said Sascha quietly. “They don’t. Not at all. They feel – warm. And good. Like I put antibiotic cream over an open wound.”

Mischa did not want to think about what that might mean. “I’m glad you’re not in pain.”

“I’m not in pain,” said Sascha. “I know I shouldn’t be, Mischa, but I’m _happy_. I feel amazing. You make me feel amazing.”

Mischa’s heart flooded, seized, flooded again; he was dazed with the overload of emotion he’d been experiencing. He felt the same way, and it terrified him, though once again it was on a level that was not nearly as intense as it likely should have been given the circumstances. “You make me feel that way, too, Sash.”

Sascha said, with a tiny smile, “Normal?”

And Mischa replied, returning the smile,

“Completely normal.” 

That was their thing now, their mantra; their equivalent of _this is fine_. Sascha reached out and ran a hand roughly through Mischa’s unkempt hair, slid long fingers down his stubbly face, and when his thumb passed over Mischa’s lips Mischa kissed his skin, once, meeting his eyes. Sascha ducked his head and smiled and the shyness in his face was so endearing Mischa’s heart ached.

*

Slowly, before either Sascha or Mischa realized what was happening, their routine developed. By the end of the second day of Sascha’s heat, both of their phones were completely dead, the storm showed no sign of abating, and the power had not so much as flickered. Had they been under any other circumstance, the situation would have been cumbersome, dire even, but as it stood the weather holding was all they could hope for. Sascha had always been a stormchaser by nature and often they lingered unwisely by the living room windows, Mischa stationed secure behind Sascha with his arms about his lithe waist, licking gently at his bruises while Sascha searched out jagged yellow cracks of lightning. Sascha was fascinated and when Mischa teased that he was drawn to danger Sascha didn’t deny it.

“It’s either that,” he said genially, “or I’m a dumbass.” 

And Mischa, on edge with the proximity of the furious streaks of neon electricity, ran a lazy hand up his brother’s flat abdomen, patted his chest.

“Maybe a little of both,” he said, and nudged into Sascha’s ear. “But I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

In the early hours of the morning of the third day Sascha woke himself rucking against Mischa’s leg; Mischa opened his eyes half a second after Sascha did and despite his best efforts started chuckling under his breath.

“Hel- _lo_.”

“Shut up,” moaned Sascha, not yet fully spellbound by the wave. “Jesus Christ, this is so embarrassing.”

“Sash, stop,” said Mischa, soothing him. “You’re fine, it’s just what your body needs. It’s okay. I’m already hard as fuck. Here.”

He took Sascha’s hand, put it to his cock, which twitched eagerly for his touch. A thrill gripped sharp and tingling at Sascha’s spine; he smiled, a gradual, vulpine thing, and immediately started scenting again.

“Yeah, you are.”

“Uh huh." Mischa watched his face, hungry for the lust there. “See? Not just you.” He rolled on top of Sascha, pinned him down; by now they had learned that clothes between waves were not necessary, and in half a second Mischa had buried his cock deep inside Sascha’s body, shut his eyes for the blissful heat, satisfied smile curling over Sascha’s lips.

“I know I’ve said this,” he panted, “but you feel so _fucking_ good, Mischa.”

“Not half as good as you.” 

“Mmmm.” Sascha was wrecked again; he’d been nothing but ruined every second Mischa fucked him, but it was in the best possible way. Mischa was mouthing over his collarbone, up the black-violet mess of his throat, skin pleasantly tender under his tongue. When he pressed his lips to the side of Sascha’s jawline Sascha turned his head and automatically they started nuzzling each other and the instant Mischa opened his eyes he found himelf staring right into Sascha’s own. The precise in-out movement of his hips didn’t stop but there was a clear beat of hesitation and then Sascha raised his head and closed his mouth over Mischa’s, natural as breathing, timestopping.

After that it was frenetic, blind, barely a break for air as they learned the taste of each other. Sascha liked to lick up under Mischa’s top lip and Mischa liked to suck Sascha’s tongue; suddenly, knowing this, everything was a hundred times more intimate. Mischa came faster than he had yet, groaning into Sascha’s mouth, and with a shock he realized that Sascha was already coming, too, breath heaving in his chest as he whimpered low. Mischa stayed still then, let Sascha adjust around his knot, suckled every bruise on Sascha’s throat individually until Sascha was hard again and _whining_ for it. He had not yet been brought to two orgasms in one wave but his second was just as forceful as the first and Mischa kissed him all the way through it, crooning to him, entranced.

Sascha said drowsily, as they were both coming down from their ecstasy, “You know what I like?”

“What?” 

“Right when you pull out,” said Sascha, “I can feel it dripping down the insides of my thighs. That’s what I like.”

He didn’t have to specify what _it_ was; Mischa was hot all the way to his core. “ _I_ like when you talk like this.”

Sascha shrugged, gave that sleepy smile. “You know me more than anyone now,” he said, and it was true. “You should also know how you make me feel.”

When Mischa pulled out he slid down Sascha’s body, kissed along his treasure trail, stuck his face between Sascha’s legs and inhaled him at his core, heavy musk mixed with his own powerful scent. High as he dared he bit gently at the tender skin of Sascha’s inner thigh, claiming him, and when he emerged he wasn’t quite clearheaded, drunk from the smell and the comedown of his orgasm. The lack of contact with the outside world was making them both brave and he knew it; here there were no consequences, he could do what he wanted and Sascha the same without any reprimand. Marcelo’s voice by now had long since faded; Mischa answered to himself now – himself and Sascha, whatever he wished.

“Mine,” he hissed, stupefied, and Sascha sighed comfortably, “yours.”

It was a dangerous game they were playing. 

*

They managed to sleep for another four hours; Sascha’s waves were arriving with slightly less frequency now. Sascha woke up first, bolted with hunger, and stroked Mischa’s hair until his eyelids flickered. The smile that crossed his face when he found Sascha’s gaze was astounding.

“Are you good?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, and beamed back. “We might even have time to eat and shower still.”

“Unprecedented.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Mm.” Mischa yawned, and then with that newfound bravery he said, “you look beautiful, Sash.”

Sascha flushed, hesitated. Mischa could feel his skin thrumming with anxiety and knew what he was going to do before he moved; still, he was struck through with satisfaction when Sascha ducked in and kissed him gently on the lips. It was so quick he barely had time to react and Sascha’s face after he pulled back was wide eyes, nerves, as though they hadn’t spend the majority of his last wave licking into each other’s mouths.

“Okay?”

Mischa didn’t use words to reassure him; he cupped the back of his brother’s head with one huge hand, coaxed him in, kissed him deep and sweet and proper. When Mischa drew carefully away Sascha was dream-eyed, mooning.

“Didn’t know you could kiss like that, Meesh.”

“Didn’t know you wanted me to kiss you.”

Sascha looked pained. “Mischa, you’ve been coming inside of me for three days. Of course I wanted you to kiss me.”

Mischa’s face flooded with scarlet color. “Good thing you did it for me, then, because I’m apparently oblivious.” 

“I don’t think you are,” said Sascha, smiling. “I think you’re shy. And afraid to cross some nonexistent line.”

“I have been,” said Mischa softly. “I want to do everything with you, and I don’t know if I can trust that, because I know heats make people crazy. And I’m afraid to do something you don’t like.”

Sascha snorted. “Like you even could. Everything you’ve done my entire life has been amazing. That still stands, regardless of my heat and our hormones making us insane. You’ve always known how to treat me, and what to do for me, and I’ll never get over that.”

Mischa kissed him again then, touched, and for a long time they were lost. It seemed as though they were finally saying what they had been trying to say since Sascha’s first heat and Mischa wasn’t sure how he felt about that but he thought it was good and he had no idea how they were ever going to come back from this. He’d expected, when Marcelo had given him concrete permission, that they would simply get Sascha through his heat as painlessly as possible – a clinical, emotionless process. He could never have imagined that things could progress the way they had, that Sascha would be worlds beyond all of Mischa’s previous sexual partners, that they would know exactly how to move with the other, dual symphony. _Mine_ , he had said, and Sascha had steadily replied, _yours_. Even outside the foggy blinders of a wave it felt like the truth; Sascha had been Mischa’s his whole life. Just because the nature of that belonging had changed did not make it any less true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this chapter while watching Sash at the Australian Open and honestly the inspiration is so real right now...


	7. Chapter 7

Sascha had been correct: they did have time before his next wave, and after they showered and refueled sufficiently – not without plenty of complaints about the lack of dietary variety; they were both becoming thoroughly bored with peanut butter sandwiches – he led Mischa to the living room couch and sat him down, straddled him, slid his hands unhurriedly up Mischa’s chest and throat and face. Leaned deliberately in and kissed him like he meant it, slipping his tongue between Mischa’s lips to explore him, know him in a way that he could not while he was in the unrelenting grasp of a wave. Here he could concentrate, focus on nerve endings that were not just clustered in his nether regions, on Mischa’s reactions and his hands roaming over his back and the way he breathed against Sascha’s mouth. Mischa’s kiss was tender and profound and while it was undeniable that both of their bodies were interested – Sascha couldn’t believe they even had the capacity for arousal between waves, so intense had the last several days been – it was more than physical pleasure now, dug deeper. He wanted to understand Mischa when he was not feral for heat lust, and he liked what he was learning.

He had a sneaking suspicion that they should not be doing this. He didn’t care. They were in shorts and Mischa was hard against him and it was beyond satisfying to know that he could cause this without scenting. Sascha was under no illusion that this would be allowed to continue beyond the week; what chance would he ever again get to taste the person he had wished to be his Alpha for his entire adult life? Everything that Mischa gave him, he would take.

When, inevitably, Sascha’s eyes went animal for lust again, Mischa pulled his shorts down around his hips, let Sascha wriggle frantically out of his own, settled him atop his cock and let him ride. As Sascha’s heat wore on they could take things slower, less all-consuming need and more leisure, enjoyment, and _oh_ did they enjoy each other. Already they knew exactly how to kiss one another and Sascha understood the precise angle at which to grind down upon Mischa’s cock to make him _incoherent_ and Mischa could scrape his fingernails down Sascha’s spine in a way that made him dissolve completely. Sascha was considerably more lucid than he had been during the first two days of his heat and he found that the additional clarity made him able to enjoy their sex more; he was not just composed of blind need, now he could think and feel outside of the confines of heat-fog and truly appreciate how excellent it was with Mischa, how seamless.

Because they were taking their leisure, this wave lasted a long time, the better part of an hour. After they had finished Sascha collapsed sideways across Mischa’s lap, satiated, and Mischa lay down beside him and curled around him and kissed him until he was dizzy for it.

“Is it bad,” he whispered against Sascha’s mouth, “that I don’t want this week to end?” 

Sascha’s entire body felt like molten gold.

“No,” he said. “I want to stay here forever, Mischa.”

After that they didn’t talk, just stroked each other’s faces and kissed and twined together, and Sascha wondered if this was what it was like to feel like you’d never need anything else in the world.

*

In the early evening they were lying in the middle of the living room, playing lazy Scrabble between bouts of outrageous flirtation, when Sascha said,

“It seems quiet."

Mischa looked at him and squinted in concentration and then he nodded. 

“You’re right, it does.”

Sascha’s eyes went wide.

“It’s the storm,” he said. “It’s not as loud.”

Mischa raised his eyebrows and in unison they both hopped to their feet, raced over to the window. Indeed, the rain seemed to have slowed considerably, and when they paused again to listen they couldn’t be sure but it seemed as though the steady thrashes of thunder that had been one atop the other for days were no longer quite as close together. 

“Surely,” said Sascha quietly, “this will last for another day.”

This was the timeline he had estimated for the end of his heat; normally his cycles finished after about four days, with his shortest being three and his longest, the first time he had been with Marcelo, being four and a half. Sascha suspected that this was because his body had been overly excited at the prospect of finally, finally finding a compatible Alpha to fuck him blind through his time of need, but he was bracing for his current heat to go long. His instinct was to drag out enjoyable things and it seemed that this aspect of his character was woven into his biology, too.

Mischa pulled him in so they were pressed together, Mischa’s right to Sascha’s left, and kissed the side of his unkempt head.

“It will,” he said. “And if it doesn’t, it’ll take the airport a bit of time to get up and running again from the loss of power. Don’t worry, Sash. We’ll come up with whatever excuse we need to stay as long as necessary.” 

Sascha turned his body sideways so he could drop his forehead onto Mischa’s shoulder; slowly his arms came up to lock around Mischa’s waist and Mischa closed his eyes and melted into him. When Sascha nosed along his clavicle up the line of his throat Mischa shifted so they could rub their faces together, nose to nose forehead to forehead until finally they were kissing, deliberate and sweet, Mischa’s fat bottom lip captured between both of Sascha’s as they breathed each other’s warm peanut butter breath. After some time Mischa swiveled his body so they could match front to front, fingers climbing gentle through Sascha’s ruckus curls to outline his perfect Grecian face. 

“Meesh,” said Sascha, low, hands coming up to bracelet around Mischa’s sturdy wrists, breath coming shaky for nerves. “I think we should stay an extra night after my heat ends. We’re both going to need to come down from it and that’s not going to be possible on a plane.”

Mischa kissed him again because he couldn’t stop, didn’t want the taste of Sascha out of his mouth, wanted to learn everything so he could memorize the nuances of his brother’s mouth, his lopsided wolf tooth, the smooth line of his inner cheek and the slick glide of his tongue against Mischa’s own. He wanted everything now so in the future when he could not have anything of Sascha at all he would at least be able to conjure his memory, a spell, a phantom sensation.

“I agree,” he said. “You’ll be tired, and you’ll need to rest and refuel before you travel. _And_ a hot shower or two would be nice before we have to go back to winter wonderland.”

Sascha dropped his head back, groaned for the thought. “I would kill for warm water right now.”

Mischa laughed and placed his mouth at the center of Sascha’s throat, one of the only unmarked spots remaining there; the majority of his neck and upper chest was a kaleidoscope mess of violet and black and acid yellow. Habitually Mischa licked over the worst of them before he answered.

“Then you’ll have it. Soon.”

Sascha’s eyes, which had gone mildly unfocused when Mischa had swiped his tongue along the line of livid teethmarks, were heavy and sexual. He blew out a breath and before he even knew he was going to speak he blurted,

“God. I don’t know how I even have anything left right now but when you lick me like that I just want you to fuck me.”

Mischa looked at him, unseated; they had by now clearly overstepped the unspoken boundary of confining their physicality solely to Sascha’s waves, but even for fearless, outspoken Sascha, this was bold. He hunted his brother’s face for signs that he was coming on but discovered only sincerity there. Sascha was lucid.

“I don’t know how I have anything left, either,” Mischa said cautiously, “but you are pretty consistently making me hard between waves, so.”

Sascha laughed softly, through his nose.

“I’ve noticed.” He ducked his head, closed his mouth unevenly over Mischa’s as he started to raise mild protest. “As I’m sure you can tell, you’re doing the same thing to me.”

Mischa hesitated. Then, gently, he slipped a knee between Sascha’s thighs, rubbed it once against his cock, eyes never leaving Sascha’s own. Sascha inhaled sharply.

“Yeah,” said Mischa, voice a husk, “I can tell.”

Sascha threaded his fingers through Mischa’s hair, licked into his open mouth.

“Normal.”

“Totally.” Mischa bit down on Sascha’s lower lip. “How long until your next wave, Sash.”

“I don’t know,” said Sascha, rough, and the smirk that sliced across his face was _errant_. “You haven’t had enough of me yet?”

Mischa snorted. “Like that’s even possible.” He slid a hand up Sascha’s hip, along the silken creamy skin of his torso, rib-counting automatically as he went. He didn’t think Sascha had lost any weight during the time they’d been confined to the house, which meant that given the circumstances things were going as successfully as they could. “What do you want next time, Sash? I never ask you when you’re clear enough to tell me.”

The grin that cut Sascha’s face intensified in its corruption. “I’m always clear about what I want, and even if I’m not, you always know what to do.” 

“Fair enough,” said Mischa, swiping his forefinger across Sascha’s sharp clavicle. “I think I’ve pretty much covered everything Marcelo told me about.”

At last Sascha was blushing; Mischa was gratified for it. “You have. And more.” He cleared his throat and shifted and Mischa could feel how hard he was, solid against Mischa’s lower abdomen. “Wouldn’t mind if you got me up against the wall again. You’re, uh, really fucking good at that.”

Mischa was chuckling; he bent his head so he could lap at Sascha’s bitemarks again, loosen him, calm him. “Surely you’re not shy for me now, Sash. I’d gotten kind of used to all the moaning and begging.” 

Sascha choked, half for pleasure, half for mortification. “Yeah, well. Comes with the territory of being in heat. You don’t know how difficult it was for me to not start begging the instant I felt the first wave coming on.” 

“I’m just giving you shit, Sash,” said Mischa mildly, tipping his jaw up so he could lick at the welts that splashed vivid across Sascha’s upper throat. “That’s our favorite pastime, remember?”

Shakily Sascha exhaled, ruined for it. “Mischa, I…you’re gonna set me off again.”

Mischa paused mid-lick. “Can that happen?”

“I don’t know,” said Sascha, his entire body arching; it was clear for what he was asking: _more_. “But it feels a lot like it right now.” 

Mischa scrutinized Sascha’s eyes, heartbeat an overactive triphammer in his ears. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” Sascha kissed him and Mischa ran his tongue under Sascha’s lower lip, across the straight row of his teeth. “I don’t want you to stop.”

So Mischa centered himself, bent his knees, got his arms secure around Sascha’s waist and picked him up like he was ( _light as a feather, stiff as a board_ , crooned the rhyme in Mischa’s head, and he smiled for it, the accuracy) nothing. Delighted, Sascha wrapped his limbs around Mischa’s body, kissed the top of his head, and then Mischa was transporting them with an astonishing lack of effort to Sascha’s room, where he kicked the door shut behind them and deposited Sascha squirming onto the mattress.

“Mischa, look, I’m sorry,” said Sascha, without the slightest ounce of apology in his voice, “but it’s so hot that you can do that.”

Mischa grinned, pushed Sascha down flat onto the pillows, crawled over him on all fours and wove their fingers behind Sascha’s head. “You don’t even weigh anything, it’s easy.”

Sascha was affronted. “Fuck you. I’ve put on a bunch of kilos with Jez.”

“Yeah, well.” Mischa ran his tongue down Sascha’s throat so he’d moan for it, and moan he did. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve always been stronger than you. Probably even more so right now, since as your acting Alpha I’m supposed to be able to give you whatever you want.”

Sascha locked his thighs around Mischa’s waist, pulled him in. “What I _want_ is for you to fuck me against that door.” 

“Oh _now_ who’s not shy?” Mischa ground his hips down into Sascha’s, heartstopping friction, the heat and hardness of them together nearly unendurable. “If that’s what you want, _liebling_ , that’s what you’ll have.”

Neither of them were quite sure if Sascha’s next wave had arrived when Mischa got him pressed back against the door, both of them naked now, shorts pooled at the end of the bed, but by the time Mischa had bitten afresh into an old bruise at the base of his brother’s neck Sascha was writhing and scenting, heavy swathe of ripe musk in the air, green means _go_.

“Fuck,” he hissed, and when Mischa slid a hand up to check him ample slick poured down his fingers; Sascha was ready.

“God damn, Sash,” he gritted out, “god damn, so wet for me.”

“Put it in, Mischa,” commanded Sascha, so Mischa did, slow at first with his measured strokes and his deliberate eyes finding Sascha’s own, then quick and quick and _quick_ until Sascha was _keening_ for him, clawmark fingernails all over Mischa’s back, yes _fuck_ yes in Mischa’s ear as Sascha let himself be slammed into the door. His body was already undulating around Mischa’s cock and it was so good Mischa couldn’t breathe, one hand fisted in Sascha’s hair, the other secured around his hips so he could hold him upright, fraught scrabbling together for purchase. Mischa suckled relentlessly at Sascha’s vibrant bruises and Sascha was mad for it, came quick in hot daubing sprays across both his belly and Mischa’s, but Mischa made sure he came again, simultaneous with Mischa’s second orgasm. They had become wholly proficient at the art of synchronic climax by now and that was how they liked it best, Sascha’s eyes delving into Mischa’s own as they shuddered through it together, Sascha’s hands buried in Mischa’s turbulent curls. Complete.

They didn’t verbally acknowledge the fact that this round had begun before Sascha had even started scenting – they couldn’t – but both of them knew it, and afterward as Mischa squeezed Sascha against him they grinned shiftily at each other, bitten lips and naughty eyes, little secrets. Closer to infringing that invisible line with everything they did, and Mischa was entirely sure that it had already been crossed but he didn’t care, he was so far gone, he wanted to curl around Sascha and tend to him and smell him and fuck him until neither of them could take it anymore. He couldn’t get close enough to Sascha, not even when he was knotted inside of him, and from the way Sascha was constantly nudging and nuzzling and purring against him he was sure that the feeling was mutual. Between waves now they were following each other around like ducklings, hands when they weren’t interwoven on each other’s shoulders, hips, spines. Mischa’s chin on Sascha’s shoulder, Sascha’s fingers braceleted around Mischa’s wrist. Singular entity.

*

That night Mischa came awake like he’d been shocked, wrenched abruptly from deep REM sleep to hyperawareness. Beside him Sascha slept with one arm thrown carelessly over his yellow head, legs braided with Mischa’s under the sheet, and Mischa wasn’t sure why his body had chosen to interrupt such grievously needed slumber until he realized that above them the ceiling fan was spinning.

The fan was spinning – and there was faint, synthetic light coming from the living room.

The power was back on.

Slowly, so he wouldn’t wake Sascha, Mischa sat up, settled his gaze upon the alarm clock on the bedside table, stark squarish numbers blinking 12:00 against the darkness. He realized that he had no idea what time it was, hadn’t known since their phones had died; if he had to guess he’d put the hour at maybe five or six AM. Outside, the storm carried on, but it was more of a steady thing than a vicious volatile tempest now, a child settling down from a raging tantrum. The sound both heartened and dismayed him: if things kept up like this they’d be on a plane back to Berlin in two days.

He rubbed a hand over his face, scratched back through his hair, crooked an elbow on one tucked-up knee. Beside him Sascha was immobile, coma-like in his slumber, and Mischa placed a featherlight kiss on his forehead before he slipped out of bed and went to the window to gaze out at the waking day. The sky held that dimmish gray quality of dawn muted by storm, the sun bringing faint light even through cloud cover, and it looked brighter than it had in some time. Mischa wasn’t ready for the world to return to normal; he and Sascha had been ruling their own secluded kingdom for just long enough that he’d gotten accustomed to it, and he didn’t want to go back to his own reality, a place where things like _responsibility_ and _marriage_ and _boundaries_ existed. _Mine_ , he had said, and Sascha had chanted back _yours_ like a faithful congregation to a minister. How could he ever forget who belonged to who now?

Restless, he padded out of the room to get some water from the kitchen; as he went he switched the living room lamp off. It was strange to see light. By now he was accustomed to living in darkness.

He stood at the sink and drained a glass of water, filled it up again so he could take it back to Sascha. As he turned to go he heard his brother’s voice, rough from sleep and half-panicked, calling his name.

Something inside of him twisted; there was no other way to describe the feeling other than a _lurch_ , a forceful yank towards Sascha’s general direction. A siren song, a Pied Piper tune, something that Mischa had no choice but to follow. Mindlessly he took off, with such haste that water sloshed over the rim of his glass, one thought in his brain: _get to Sascha he NEEDS YOU_. He raced back through the living room, pushed Sascha’s bedroom door open, stood in the entranceway with his heart thumping and his eyes huge from apprehension.

“Sash?”

“Oh. Hey.” The relief in Sascha’s voice was demonstrable; his shoulders relaxed and instantly the urgency in Mischa’s blood stilled. “I woke up and you were gone. I freaked out a little bit. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Mischa crossed to the bed, kissed Sascha on the lips, handed him the full glass of water. “I went to get a drink. Woke up and realized the power was back on and got restless about it.”

“Mmm.” Sascha pulled back from the glass, wiped his mouth, eyebrows lifting. “Wait, what? The power’s on?” 

“Yeah,” said Mischa, pointing a finger above them at the circulating fan, “I think I woke up when that started moving again. Are you okay? Do you need me to get you anything?”

“I’m fine,” said Sascha, smiling for Mischa’s attentiveness. “Just you. Just stay. I can’t believe I woke up, I was fucking _out_.”

“I know you were,” said Mischa, and they swapped a shit-eating grin; Sascha had fallen into a knockout doze after Mischa had fucked him mercilessly against the headboard, thrusting and thrusting until Sascha was bawling his name, boneless. Sapped from the exertion, they had not bothered to do an extensive cleanup afterwards, and the combined scent of them was as raw as though they had just finished.

Mischa had grown to love that scent.

“So the power,” said Sascha, after he’d finished the glass of water. “Do you think it’ll stay on? The weather still seems kind of shit.”

“It is,” said Mischa, “and I don’t know. Remember when the storm was first starting and the employees told us that power was going in and out on the main land? That would be my guess as to what happens here, now.”

“Mine, too.” Sascha bulled his forehead into Mischa’s shoulder. “God. We should probably charge our phones.” 

“Fuck no,” said Mischa, and Sascha sat up, gave a little startled bleat of a laugh. “I’m not turning mine on until at least the afternoon. This is so much better when I don’t have to worry about answering everyone’s texts. I like it when it’s just you and me.”

Sascha beamed, and the brilliance of it coursed through Mischa’s blood; he twisted his fingers in the sheets, subconsciously demolishing his stumpy thumbnail, starstruck for the look on his brother’s face.

“If we weren’t professional tennis players,” Sascha said, sliding a long hand along Mischa’s cheek, “we could just stay. Change our names.”

“Drop off the face of the earth,” said Mischa, smiling as he leaned into Sascha’s caress. “Withdraw all of our cash, hop continents for the rest of our lives so no one could find us.”

“We could dye our hair,” said Sascha. “I’ve always wanted to know what I’d look like if I went dark.”

“Dye our hair, and get tattoos,” suggested Mischa, laughing. “No one would ever recognize us.”

“I don’t think I’d like that, though, honestly,” said Sascha without thinking. “I like how you are now.”

Mischa lowered his eyes, embarrassed; he was glad for the darkness, how it veiled the thick flush that painted his face. “I like how you are too.”

Sascha pressed his knuckles to Mischa’s cheek and his voice when he spoke again was tender. “You’re warm.” 

“Yeah, well. That’s what happens when I blush,” said Mischa, and when Sascha kissed him Mischa could feel how enormously he was smiling. “How are you doing? Think you can sleep more?”

Sascha yawned, raised those long albatross arms over his head, shivered from the comedown. “Yeah, I’m good. You wore me out earlier.” 

“Good. I did my job, then,” said Mischa, and Sascha grabbed for him, pulled him down so they crashed against the pillows together, grappling, choking with laughter.

“You’re doing more than just _your job_ ,” Sascha said softly, “and you know it.”

“I know,” said Mischa, and then, awkwardly, “Sascha, I…I am enjoying you. So much. You, and, you know. All of this. I wasn’t kidding when I said that this is the best sex I’ve ever had. By far.”

“Me neither,” said Sascha softly. “You are incredible, Mischa. You make me feel like I’m not even on Earth when we’re together. I don’t know what you’re doing or how you’re doing it, but Jesus Christ.”

Mischa was laughing, quietly, through his nose. “It’s the same with you. Exactly the same.”

He took Sascha’s face in his hands, kissed him, sweet and slow.

“I love you, Sash,” he said, fondly. “No matter what, I love you.”

“I love you too, Mischa,” said Sascha. “The most.” 

“Me too,” said Mischa, and he pressed his mouth to Sascha’s forehead. “Now sleep, okay? I’m probably going to wear you out all over again tomorrow.”

Sascha snickered and tucked his head under Mischa’s chin and in minutes they were dozing, warm and sheltered in each other’s arms, feeling for all the world as content as they’d ever be.

*

Sascha woke up hard and wanting, although the degree of need within him had reduced considerably since that insufferable first day. He shifted against Mischa, inhaled his first massive breath of morning air, let his eyes come open naturally. Studied his brother’s striking sleep-placid face and smiled. Mischa would never own up to how stunning he was, always insistent upon humility, but Sascha had been aware of him since he’d learned to recognize beauty. He could be in a room full of lovely people and still his gaze would go unfailingly to Mischa, and more often than not he would find Mischa looking back at him.

He wriggled, clenched his toes; Mischa smelled raw and sharp, primal, the scent of an unwashed Alpha. One muscular arm was tossed up over his sleep-disheveled head and Sascha took the chance to submerge his face in Mischa’s armpit, got dizzyingly high from his aroma, groaned out loud without realizing he was vocalizing. Mischa stirred, cracked an eye, realized what was happening and grinned like a vulture.

“Hey.” 

“Hey.” Sascha was riled now, needy for Mischa’s scent, how solid he was, how Alpha. He took Mischa’s hand and slipped it between his legs, Mischa’s forefinger against his puckering entrance, and Mischa’s eyes waxed colossal. “Check me.”

Easily, with his gaze never straying from Sascha’s own, Mischa pressed two fingers inside of Sascha’s body, crooked them so he squirmed. He gave that wicked smirk again and then Sascha was climbing him, threading his fingers with Mischa’s own, manic-eyed for lust. He rode him hard, head tipped back with his fat kiss-swollen lips parted, Mischa’s name always in his mouth, and Mischa watched him like he was a god, a titan, inhuman in his golden faultlessness. Destructive, because every time he came inside Sascha’s matchless heat, let Sascha spill hot thick seed all over him, he was ruined a little bit more for anyone else. 

*

They took their first hot shower in days, practically crying for the sensation of warmth, and when they were finished Mischa got creative in the kitchen with what little they had and made _toasted_ peanut butter sandwiches on the skillet, adding jelly at the last minute for a switchup. Sascha perched on the counter and Mischa stood between his legs and they ate their sandwiches and kissed and smeared jelly all over each other’s lips and kissed some more. It all felt mushy and domestic and _precise_ and Sascha was swooning, too submerged to feel any sense of wrongness for what they were doing, so happy. The last thing he wanted to do was leave and when his mind inevitably strayed to the future, to the prospect of time away from Mischa, his stomach lurched.

He couldn’t go there yet. He wouldn’t let himself.

“I think,” said Mischa, licking a smudge of peanut butter from the corner of Sascha’s mouth, “I’m gonna call the front desk about the flight situation. I don’t want them putting us on one tonight if conditions become good enough to fly.”

“I approve,” said Sascha indulgently, and Mischa yanked him forward on the counter, hands around his lean hips, possessive. “Ooh. Hey.”

“Hey.” Mischa parted his lips, let Sascha lick playfully inside. “Was that better than plain peanut butter and banana?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, “but I’d sacrifice a lamb for some Chinese food.” 

Mischa blurted out a laugh, raised his eyebrows. “Cool it, Satan. We’ll get some from that place down the street when we get back to Berlin, yeah?”

“Now that,” said Sascha, “is something I don’t want to think about.”

Mischa pushed his forehead gently against Sascha’s own.

“Same. So we won’t. But I do have to call the front desk. Wanna come with me?” 

“As if I would willingly let you leave my sight right now,” said Sascha starkly, and they both grinned at each other; it was true, there was no room for denial. As it stood right now they were extremely, obviously codependent.

So Mischa led Sascha to the living room, collapsed on the couch with Sascha sitting on the floor beside him, head dropped back so it was rested directly in the middle of Mischa’s stomach. Mischa dialed the front desk and received an answer after two rings.

“Mr. Zverev. Hello. How are you two holding up over there?”

“We’re fine, thank you,” said Mischa, smirking for the formality, fingers tangling automatically in Sascha’s curls. “It’s been rough, but we’re still alive. Is everything okay on your end?”

“About the same, thank you for asking,” replied the concierge, “rough, but everyone is very much still alive. Have you called to discuss your flight arrangements?”

“Yes,” said Mischa. “Is the airport up and running again?”

“They’re working on it. From what we’ve heard conditions should stabilize enough for flights to resume as scheduled tomorrow morning. Shall I book you the earliest available passage?”

“Afternoon is fine,” said Mischa. “Maybe around – ”

“One,” said Sascha, and dutifully Mischa repeated his request. The concierge promised to let him know as soon as he was able to secure them a flight, and when Mischa hung up Sascha crawled up on the couch to lie next to him, wrap their legs together as he so loved to do. Mischa stroked his fringe back from his eyes.

“What do you think, Sash,” he said, and Sascha knew what he meant.

“I don’t know,” he said. “My first heat with Marcelo was four and a half days because it was so good, but my average is between three and four. I’d say maybe by tonight I’m done.”

“This is day four, right?” 

“It is,” said Sascha indulgently, knowing where Mischa was going with this line of questioning.

“And you already had one wave this morning.”

“Yes.”

“Well.” Mischa looked pleased. “Must be okay, then.”

“You already know where I stand on that,” said Sascha, mock exasperated, but his eyes were alight and when Mischa kissed him he exhaled happily into his mouth. Like this they stayed, squirming and nudging into each other and running huge hands everywhere over each other’s skin, until Mischa paused, pulled back to examine Sascha’s throat.

“God,” he said, and he couldn’t help but laugh a bit for the sheer insanity of the situation.

“Yeah, it’s terrible,” said Sascha cheerfully. “I keep catching glimpses of myself in the mirror and freaking out a little bit. They feel so good, though, Meesh, you don’t know. The ones on my thighs, too.”

Mischa smiled, lapped at him, and Sascha groaned in contentment. “I mean, from an objective point of view I get that they look bad, but to me…they look gorgeous on you, Sash. You look gorgeous.” _Mine_ was burning on his tongue, but he couldn’t say it.

“Well, I like them too,” said Sascha, flushing. “You made them.”

They lolled on the couch for a bit in the dark, the house with its restored power humming around them, then Mischa sighed, sat up, rucked a hand back through his hair.

“Okay,” he said, “as much as I don’t want to, we should probably make contact with the outside world now. If Mum finds out there’s power and we’re not texting her she’s gonna dig both of our graves.”

Sascha sighed, scrubbed his hands over his face, but he let Mischa pull him up and drag him to the kitchen again. Their phones were stacked one atop the other by the toaster, chargers curled around them, and Mischa plugged them both back in, made a face at Sascha, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his mouth twisted. Annoyed.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

“Me neither,” said Mischa soothingly, holding out his hand; Sascha pushed himself off the wall, walked over to take it, reluctance infused within every movement. “We’ll make it quick, and then we can do whatever you want. We even have cable available to us again, so we can watch a shitty movie.”

“Are you gonna call your wife?”

“I have to, Sash,” said Mischa. “You know I do. Look. You call Mum and Dad, I’ll call Evi, and then we’ll both call Marcelo. Fifteen minutes, we’re done.”

“Okay,” said Sascha, because what could he say, how could he be envious of his brother’s wife? But he was, and though he turned away to hide his eyes he knew Mischa saw it in his face because he pulled him back with that commanding clutch of fingers at the scruff of Sascha’s neck, huffed out a bothered breath, held him still.

“Sascha,” he said, and his voice was raspy. “Just – ”

Sascha was unstable at his _crux_ waiting for Mischa to speak, but he didn’t, and that was okay because the urgent, heavy kiss that he gave him broadcasted everything that Sascha needed to know. When Mischa pulled back Sascha tangled his fingers in Mischa’s chains and at first he lowered his eyes but then on a burst of courage he looked straight into Mischa’s face.

“I know.”

They clutched at each other for another moment before Sascha smiled delicately and let go, walked over to his phone, which was lighting up again and again for missed calls and texts and notifications. Then he took a deep breath and dialed his mother’s number.

She picked up after half a ring, relief rushing from her like a flood, and guilt pierced Sascha’s chest like an arrowtip.

“ _Sascha_ , _solnyshka_ , I’m so happy you called. Alex, it’s Sash. They’ve got power.”

“Hi, Mum,” said Sascha, swallowing; Mischa in front of him was by now on the phone with Evgeniya and he was speaking to their parents and between them their fingers were braiding and unbraiding, as routine as breathing. “We just got power. The storm started slowing down this morning.”

“Finally. I’m putting you on speaker so you can talk to your father. Is Mischa right there with you?” Irina’s voice was _raw_ from respite emotion and Sascha couldn’t help but smile; he’d missed her, too.

“Yeah, he’s here. He’s talking to his – to Evgeniya,” said Sascha, biting the inside of his cheek for the near misstep, and then Alex’s voice chimed in.

“Alexander, are you okay? Are you safe?”

“Hey, Dad,” said Sascha, bouncing habitually back onto the counter; Mischa stepped between his legs, rubbed down one of Sascha’s lean thighs with his free hand, all the while speaking reassurances to Evgeniya into his phone. Sascha felt dirty, rebellious, and he _thrilled_ for it. “We’re fine. Sick of peanut butter and banana sandwiches, but fine. We’ve got power and the front desk says the airport should be up and running by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

“Thank god,” said Alex, and Irina murmured agreement. “The forecast kept changing, we didn’t know what in the world was going on, and we were so worried when your phones ran out of battery." 

“Yeah. It’s been insane,” said Sascha. “We’ve spent a lot of time in the basement with flashlights and Scrabble. We’re going kind of stir crazy here.”

“I would imagine so,” said Irina, laughing. “But you’re okay? You still have your medication, right?” 

“Mum, yes,” said Sascha, laughing; it was disgusting how easy it was to tell falsehoods about this to his parents, but he knew he had to be convincing or they’d dog him unrelentingly until they found cracks that they could pick at. “No way would I forget them. You know my season would be ruined if I got stuck somewhere without – well.”

Mischa wedged between Sascha’s knees was half listening, tongue poked out in response to the untruth, and Sascha kicked him, tried not to let the grin that slashed his face saturate his voice. Mischa’s eyes were liquid chocolate and Sascha was tumbling into them and he almost didn’t understand when his father spoke.

“Speaking of that. Is…” Alex cleared his throat. “Marcelo going to come to Berlin for a few days when you get home?”

Sascha’s face blanked out with shock. “Marcelo? Um…”

Mischa, who had correctly interpreted the nature of the conversation, flared triumphant eyes at Sascha, whose entire blood supply rushed instantaneously to his throat, his cheeks, his ears. “Told you they knew,” he mouthed, and Sascha smacked him, shut his eyes in total degradation.

“Uh, yeah, that’s the plan,” he continued, as calmly as he could. “But you guys are still planning to come to Monte Carlo, right? Maybe sometime next week? I can probably be there by Thursday or Friday.”

“Yes, honey, we were just trying to plan for that,” said Irina firmly, and Sascha could tell from her tone that she had given Alex The Look, the one that said _I’m taking over this conversation before you make an idiot of yourself_. “You take your time, we can be there whenever you want us to be. We thought we’d come spend a few days with you and then maybe relax at home until Australia.”

“Sure. I’ll let you guys know when I’m headed there and we can just meet at the house,” said Sascha, and when he opened his eyes Mischa was right there and his mouth was warm and soft on Sascha’s own, kissing him like they weren’t conversing with their family, like there was no chance in the world that the distinctive squelch of their lips breaking apart could transmit through the phone, but when Mischa pulled back it was gentle and deliberate and quiet as a footfall in a deep bed of soft snow. Sascha was dizzy for him.

He fell silent while Alex and Irina described the goings-on of their lives, watching Mischa’s lush mouth move as he got Evgeniya up to date, and at last when he bid her goodbye Sascha put their parents on speakerphone and let Mischa say hello. There was not much more information with which to regale them and by now both of them were thoroughly distracted, Mischa in his favorite spot held firmly between Sascha’s thighs, looking at one another through lidded eyes as they simultaneously carried on a perfectly normal conversation with their parents and licked each other’s tongues in the spaces where no input from them was required. When Alex and Irina were satisfied they exchanged _I love you_ s and _talk soon_ s and the second Sascha ended the call he launched forward off the counter, fell at Mischa, all grin and astonishment.

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“You love it,” said Mischa, and Sascha bit his brother’s lower lip hard enough to bring blood.

“I do love it. I get off on that shit. I love danger.”

“I know,” said Mischa, and without a single conscious thought he dropped his hand to Sascha’s waistband, knowing Sascha was hard, interested. “I love it, too.”

“Of course you do,” breathed Sascha, frozen, every iota of him focused around the position of Mischa’s hand. “Of course.”

They stood looking at each other, breathing hard through their nostrils, poised to move. This was now the second time in less than twenty-four hours that they were prepared to fuck around when Sascha was not in a wave, but it was in the back of both of their heads that his cycle was almost complete, and very shortly they would have to leave this entire secret little world behind. The time crunch was oppressive and Sascha didn’t hesitate when he pressed his palm flat to Mischa’s lower stomach.

“This stamina,” said Sascha, and his voice was quite steady. “Is unprecedented.”

“We got used to fucking each other every hour and a half,” said Mischa, grinning predatorlike. “It’s been almost four. Can’t wait that long.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever in my life actively wished for another wave to come on as many times as I have this week,” said Sascha brazenly, and Mischa’s coffee eyes went coal because there it was.

“Do you think you’re done?”

“Mmm.” Sascha cracked his neck, stretched. “No. I know when the last one is after it’s finished, it’s like a switch that turns off. I can’t explain it.”

“I see," said Mischa slowly, then: “Sascha. Do you really think we need to waste time calling Marcelo right now when you can just text him?”

Sascha searched his face. “Not at all. A text will suffice.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Mischa, matching Sascha's earlier frankness, “I want to get you in bed and play with you until your next wave. Now tell him what he needs to hear and let’s go.”

It was the first time he had truly demonstrated that imperious Alpha nature and the Omega within Sascha fell to pieces for it; he grabbed his phone from the counter, shot Marcelo a placating text promising that he would call in the morning, and let Mischa lead him to the bedroom. They had both professed to love danger; well, this was the height of it. Sascha wasn’t sure if Mischa’s attention between waves could entice a fresh one to come on but if Mischa was willing to find out so was he. The part of him that wanted to know Mischa carnally outside of the ready excuse of a heat was loud, loud, loud and as they passed through the entranceway to his room he was stricken with the staggering scent of their sex and he knew that he was ready for anything. What was one more crossed boundary when all they’d done that week was break rules?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well goddamn, this is getting interesting, isn't it? :D


	8. Chapter 8

“Do you remember when I called you after your first heat with Marcelo?” Mischa asked as he sat at the end of the bed, luxuriant confidence in every movement, all sparking eyes and kiss-swollen mouth. Sascha was pulled to him, fish on a lure, defenseless; he walked over, pushed at Mischa’s knees until he split them.

“Yeah. You asked me if you could come over.” Sascha smirked, pressed his thumb to the tip of Mischa’s nose, scattered in freckles from days of sun. “Touching thought, horrible idea.”

Mischa chuckled. “You were right to say the smell would have knocked me out. Every time I come in here it’s like walking into a fucking trap house. I get high just from breathing.”

“Me too,” said Sascha, “it’s stronger with you. Like, it’s intense with Marcelo, because all heat sex is intense, but you and me…I mean, fuck, Mischa. I can smell you all over me all the time.”

Mischa was watching him, rabid. “It’s the same for you. Marcelo said you have the strongest scent of any Omega he’s ever been with.”

“Yeah, he’s told me that,” said Sascha, blossom of blood starting at his cheeks, and Mischa gripped the backs of his thighs, half-smirk at the corner of his mouth. “And I don’t know if it counts, because I haven’t been around a ton of Alphas when they’re scenting for real. But your smell is ridiculous.” 

“Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe you get it from me,” said Mischa, kissing the absolute flatness of Sascha’s lower stomach, and even as Sascha’s eyes went round he flashed a reflexive grin.

“You’re twisted.”

“Hate to break it to you, little brother,” said Mischa calmly, flicking his tongue out so he could lick a straight line along the track of dark hair disappearing into Sascha’s shorts. “But so are you.”

Sascha hissed in a breath; he was fucked for Mischa’s mouth, his deliberate positioning. “ _That’s_ nothing new.”

Mischa laughed and his breath was a hot puff against Sascha’s abdomen. His hands rubbed up Sascha’s hips, wrapped around his torso; Sascha had indeed gained some kilos with Jez but he was still lean enough that Mischa with his huge palms could fit both hands easily around his waist. He might have been shorter than Sascha but somehow he still had the capacity to make him feel small.

“I can smell you right now,” he said, low, nosing along Sascha’s waistband. “Even though you’re not scenting. It’s still there.”

Sascha shivered. 

“Yeah,” he said, striving to maintain control of his voice. “Not surprising. Look where you are.”

“Oh I know where I am,” said Mischa, supreme, wicked. He kissed at Sascha’s hipbone, nibbled the skin there, looked up at him with dark eyes and sin in his face. Sascha held his breath, aching-hard and frozen, and when Mischa blew on his skin he gave a muted little whimper in his throat.

“Meesh.”

“Uh huh.” Mischa licked him, squeezed around his lean sides, hooked a finger in Sascha’s waistband. Sascha was stricken, bereft of air, waiting. “Can I take these off?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Sascha, with embarrassing enthusiasm. “I think we’re past the point of you asking permission, Mischa.”

Mischa raised his hands, grinned, caught out. “Hey. I’m trying to be an exemplary Alpha here.” 

“Understatement. You’ve proven yourself. Consistently. For the past four days,” said Sascha firmly, sliding out of his gym shorts; from habit he had worn boxers underneath but they were entirely useless because he was so hard the tip of his cock was peeking through the front flap. 

Mischa noticed; Sascha noticed him noticing, and the air around them was buzzing, lightning-bolt target. He said, “Oh yeah?” His voice was all grating gravel and Sascha thrilled for it.

“I told you,” said Sascha, and tipped Mischa’s chin up. Again their eyes locked hot and Sascha was not stable. “Yours.”

Something inside Mischa, some last string of resolve, shattered. Pupils dilated, blood screaming, he bumped his face against Sascha’s obviously throbbing cock, got his teeth around the waistband of his boxers, pulled downward. Sascha helped him, wild, kicking them off when they pooled at his ankles, and now with no barrier between them Mischa could rub his face along the iron length of Sascha’s cock, breathing him, hungry. Sascha was _shaking_.

“Jesus Christ, Mischa.”

“Mmm.” Mischa could have done this all day, let Sascha stroke his face with the pearling crown of his dick, precum streaking iridescent tears down his cheeks. “You, too.”

“Take your shorts off,” said Sascha, even though he was closer to incoherence every second, “I wanna see you. I wanna know you’re hard.”

Mischa took Sascha’s hand, settled it between his legs, and Sascha swore for how aroused he was. “I am.”

“Let me see,” insisted Sascha, so Mischa stripped, threw his shorts haphazardly into a far corner of the room, resumed petting Sascha’s cock with his face.

“Happy?”

Sascha choked on his laughter. “You keep underestimating.”

Mischa grinned. “ _Very_ happy?”

“Better.” Sascha passed an instinctive hand through Mischa’s curls, soft yielding beneath his touch. He was struggling to stay still and Mischa knew it, blew on the crown so Sascha would groan. “Fuck.” 

“Yeah?”

Sascha’s hand tightened in Mischa’s hair. “Is this your idea of playing with me?”

“Somewhat.” Mischa nuzzled along the length, breathed the hot velvet of Sascha’s skin. “I haven’t really started.”

“Jesus.” Sascha buried his fingernails into the palm of his free hand, quelling himself, _patience_ because if he couldn’t leash himself he suspected that Mischa would sense it and subsequently draw out his torture. “I’d call this playing. Fucking killing me, Mischa.”

“Mmm.” Mischa’s smile was demonic, snakelike, corrupted pleasure. “Good. I want you boneless.”

Sascha lost it for that, just a little. “You’ve had me boneless. You’ve had me on my knees begging you to put it in.”

“You’re right, I have,” said Mischa, and in a slow single motion he licked over the tip of Sascha’s cock, tasted him, his salt. “In the throes of a wave. That doesn’t quite count, does it?”

“God.” Sascha was shivering, blank-brained, made of perception. “It’s hot when you Alpha.”

Mischa gripped Sascha’s ass, fingers commanding as he kneaded the flesh there. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“You tell me.” Sascha’s breath was harsh, rickety. “Does it look like I’m in control here?”

“Do you want to be?” Mischa licked Sascha’s slit again, pulled him in closer, and Sascha groaned. 

“Too many questions.” Sascha bit the side of his tongue to stop himself begging. Such moments of weakness were reserved for waves, when he couldn’t curb his need, couldn’t rein the biological drive to _plead_. “I want whatever you’re doing.”

Mischa’s nails raked gently down Sascha’s low back, stirred nerves he hadn’t known existed. “You ever get sucked off during a wave? Does that help you, or do you always need to be fucked through it?”

Sascha loved listening to Mischa speak like this, loved it when he was dirty; he hadn’t known that he had it in him. Soft, kind Mischa with his Ghirardelli eyes and quick smile. “I don’t know if it helps, because it’s never been done to me.”

Mischa paused for that, reared back like a cobra. “ _Ever_?”

“No! I mean,” said Sascha, flushing, “I’ve gotten head before, obviously. Just not during a heat.”

“I was going to say. I know you’re picky, but god damn.” Mischa felt possessiveness roaring in his chest and cut it off by sucking the tip of Sascha’s cock gently into his mouth, damp heat. Sascha went temporarily blind for it, swore hard in Russian, fingernails scraping across Mischa’s scalp. He managed to grit out,

“Not that picky,”

And when Mischa looked up at him Sascha immediately interpreted the territorial expression in his eyes. He took one of Mischa’s hands, brought it heavy up to his throat, pressed Mischa’s fingers into a particularly nasty bruise. Mischa’s face cleared and he pulled off Sascha’s cock like a sucker, indecent _pop_ ricocheting through the air. _Mine_. 

“I like you picky. Keeps you honest.”

“As I prefer you,” said Sascha, and for a steady, querying moment they looked at each other before Mischa yanked Sascha bodily onto the bed, flipped him over on his stomach. Mapped a line down his spine with his tongue, spread his thighs and pressed a thumb to his opening. He was so used to slick dripping readily from Sascha’s body that it was shocking to find him clean and dry, little circle of muscle shivering under Mischa’s touch. 

“Beautiful, Sash,” he murmured, and Sascha squirmed back against him. 

“Fucking love it when you throw me around.” 

“Yeah?” Mischa rose to his haunches, pressed his torso to Sascha’s back, ground down into him. As he slid down Sascha’s body he kept hands pressed to his shoulders, pinning him down into the bed, firm. Again, slow, his mouth landed on each rung of Sascha’s ladder spine, tasting him, and Mischa could feel how much Sascha was squirming. “That’s what I hear from Marcelo.” 

“He didn’t lead you wrong,” said Sascha starkly, and Mischa smiled into his skin, nosed down the cleft of his ass, and then he was temporarily staggered from the _scent._ Sascha was not yet in a wave but the aroma of him here was undeniable; pungent and thick and musky, toxic. Mischa was _salivating_.

“God, Sascha, your smell.”

“Mmmm.” Sascha wriggled. “It’s always strong there when I’m in heat.”

Mischa swore, low, and before he could think about what he was doing he leaned in and licked across Sascha’s entrance.

Sascha gasped sharply; he hadn’t expected it and the warm wet was like nothing he had ever felt and it jolted him _everywhere_. Mischa kept him still, hands shoving his hips down, and ducked in to lick him again, slower this time, deliberate lap instead of a swipe. Sascha whined; Mischa smiled, trailed his tongue in a slow halo around that most sensitive pucker of muscle, aware that Sascha was rubbing his hips down desperately against the mattress. His little brother tasted exactly like he smelled and it was _so good_ and he wasn’t even scenting and Mischa thought he’d go mad for it. Out of absolute need he slid a hand between his own legs and stroked himself once, twice, losing himself in the bliss of Sascha’s ass in his face until Sascha growled out loud. 

“Stop fucking touching yourself. I don’t want you to cum _on me_ , I want you to cum _in me_.”

It amazed Mischa that Sascha could know what he was doing simply by the slight alteration of his scent but obediently he stopped, raised up, rubbed his cockhead along the cleft of Sascha’s ass. Shuddered for the feel of him.

“Since when are you the boss, huh?”

Sascha moaned, rucked back into him, and Mischa got an arm under his brother’s belly and hitched him up so Sascha would get on his hands and knees. Sascha complied and he was open and pliant and it was all Mischa could do not to stick it in right then and there. 

“I’m not,” said Sascha on a purr, and Mischa’s lower stomach went up in abrupt witch-trial flames. “But I know what you like.”

“And I know what you like,” said Mischa, and he dove back between Sascha’s legs, slid his tongue gently inside of him. Sascha groaned aloud, sightless, goosebumped everywhere.

“Jesus fucking God, Mischa, _yes_.”

So Mischa went to town. Sascha was hot and tight around his tongue and he fucked him like he couldn’t get deep enough, licking and sucking at the crevice of Sascha’s ass until his brother was mewling, quivering, incoherent. It wasn’t long before the richness of his flavor intensified; Mischa recognized that he was scenting again a half second before Sascha gave that telltale keen at the back of his throat. Mischa pulled away, drank from Sascha’s overflowing slick, reached down to swipe precome from his own slit. He understood dimly that he could have reached orgasm simply by grinding his hips into the mattress as he tongue-fucked his brother into mindlessness and the thought startled him. Never before had he found it so arousing to bring pleasure to another human being, but then again, Sascha was in heat, and his scent was Mischa’s heroin. Dizzying, hypnotizing. 

“I told you I’d have you boneless,” he said, husky, and Sascha rolled onto his back, got his legs in the air, split his thighs so Mischa hissed for the sight of him.

“Mission accomplished,” he said through clenched teeth, and Mischa didn’t wait for him to ask, didn’t need verbalization now. He launched up between Sascha’s legs and sank his throbbing cock as deep as he could go inside Sascha’s entrance, glossy with slick and spit, and then they were rocking together, clutching at one another so hard they’d leave bruisemarks as they surfed Sascha’s wave. Tidal. Petting and stroking at each other, praises dripping from both of their tongues, and now they were both cursing in Russian because English wasn’t good enough and German didn’t come quite as easily when they were mindless for lust. Mischa licked into Sascha’s mouth, let him savor himself, and Sascha clutched at the nape of Mischa’s neck and moaned for it, the knowledge of what he was tasting. Between them Mischa was working Sascha’s cock, deliberate lethal rhythm, and again Sascha came not once, but twice, concurrent with both of Mischa’s orgasms, stargazing in his ecstasy, luxuriant for the feel of Mischa’s warm orgasm filling him up. When they were both thoroughly spent, panting and quivering together with their fingers locked and their hearts thudding in tandem, Mischa collapsed beside Sascha and gathered him in and kissed him until he couldn’t breathe.

“I think,” said Sascha shakily, “that’s it,” and Mischa looked at him and stroked his face and then they curled up together and slept, drained, slaked. They had gotten Sascha through his heat. There was nothing else for it but to rest now.

When they woke some time later Sascha retrieved his phone from the kitchen and called Marcelo, who sounded both relieved to hear their voices and entirely too suspicious for Mischa’s liking. Aggravated with himself, he pushed the wayward thought aside – they had a favor to ask. 

“So, I have news,” began Sascha, and Marcelo snorted.

“Shock me, Sash. You can’t anymore.”

“Mum and Dad definitely know that you’ve been my acting Alpha,” said Sascha, and Mischa’s nostrils flared automatically; Sascha cupped a quelling hand around his jawline and he took a stabilizing breath. “Dad asked me if you were coming to Berlin for a few days when I got home.”

“You call that news? Psh.” Marcelo’s voice was a low chuckle. “Mom and Dad Zverev have known that _forever_ , Sash. You just never want to think about it. Is understandable.” 

“Right,” said Sascha, “but the thing is, they expect you to be there, and me and Mischa both would feel a whole lot better if you actually, you know, were. He has to – he can’t stay.”

“Oh, of course,” said Marcelo brightly. “I already plan on you asking. Mischa have to go back to Evgeniya or else it look weird, yes? I come to you. We hang out, drink beer, play video games. All good.”

Sascha’s eyes flooded with relief and Mischa cringed under the weight of his own guilt. He felt like he was abandoning Sascha, and so fresh from his heat; it was going to be brutal and no part of him wanted to walk away but he knew they had to save face and it was now or never. 

“Thanks, Marcelo. We owe you so hard.”

“I know,” said Marcelo cheerfully. “Mischka, you stop feeling guilty. You have to go home or everyone know what happen. So stop it, okay? I take care of him.”

“I’m right here,” said Sascha, annoyed, but Mischa almost couldn’t breathe for gratitude; despite his underlying, primal Alpha-Alpha issue with Marcelo, he understood fully that this was a true friend, one who was helping them in such a way that he could never be repaid for it. He swallowed.

“Marcelo, I…”

“I know,” said Marcelo softly. “It’s okay. We get through it. You guys just concentrate on getting back home and I come to you as soon as I can. We figure it out.”

So it was settled. Mischa would not be leaving Sascha to wallow in self-pity alone in the merciless starkness of Berlin winter. They had a plan, and it might have been small, but it felt a whole lot better than nothing. 

*

In the steady rain Mischa ran across the way to the lobby to procure a couple of cans of soup for dinner; they were both ill at the thought of sandwiches again and Mischa was willing to risk getting soaked for the opportunity to eat something savory. They had agreed that Sascha would stay behind to avoid suspicion – he looked the picture of glowing health, not at all like he would if he had just suffered through an Alpha-less heat cycle – but the instant Sascha was out of his sight a slow, persistent itch scraped its way under Mischa’s skin, trawling through his bloodstream until it perched venomous behind his heart. Separation anxiety, but heavier, thicker, more all-consuming. He thought of the bruises he’d bestowed all over his brother’s body, thought of _mine, yours_ , and when he looked back through the rain he saw Sascha standing at the window watching him go, one elegant long-fingered hand smashed up against the glass, forlorn. Like fiction, but nothing had ever been more real.

He managed to get in and out with very little questioning from the staff – _how is Mr. Sascha, did he make it through the week okay, do either of you need anything_ – and used the opportunity to practice his poker face; he thought that he answered quite convincingly and it was with a new sense of resolve that he blew back through the door of their hut. Sascha was in the entranceway waiting for him, wide-eyed and bundled into Mischa’s hoodie and looking thoroughly on edge. The second Mischa closed the door he was at his side and without even a thought Mischa gathered him in, knowing that Sascha needed his proximity. The relief that washed over him when they came together was disconcerting in its extremity.

“I should have gone with you,” said Sascha dully, not a care in the world for the fact that Mischa was drenching him all down his front. “It feels so fucking bad when you aren’t right next to me all the time right now.”

“I know, Sash, it does for me too,” soothed Mischa. “I saw you watching me go and almost turned right around to come back for you.”

“God.” Sascha’s laugh was rueful. “We’re pathetic.” 

“Disgusting,” agreed Mischa cheerfully, but he was soaring from the contact they’d re-established and the fact that he would not have to eat fruit and nut butter for the twelfth time in four days. “But I have soup. Check it out.”

Sascha pulled back, examined the cans in his brother’s hands, pulled a massive sunshine smile. 

“My fucking hero.”

Mischa snorted. “Yeah. Braved a monsoon for you and everything. Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” said Sascha. “Come on. You need dry clothes, and then we can eat.”

He followed Mischa into the bedroom, leaned against the doorframe observing while he changed into a fresh pair of shorts and a t-shirt. Teardops of rain had collected in the chocolate mess of his curls and he looked beautiful in an otherworldly sort of way and Sascha felt heavy in his chest, overcome, in awe. Mischa saw him watching; under scrutiny he flushed mulberry red. Because it was what he would always have done in a situation like this, because nothing had changed, he said, 

“Perv.” 

Sascha grinned.

“Says the guy who was tongue-fucking me into oblivion four hours ago.”

Mischa choked on his own spit. “Oblivion, huh?”

Sascha raised his eyebrows. “Nirvana. Paradise. Whatever you want to call it.” He held out a hand and Mischa came to him, kissed him solidly on the lips. “I was there.”

“Yeah, well.” Mischa’s arms snaked around Sascha’s hips and they rocked sideways, once, leaning on each other to keep from falling. “I was maybe five solid minutes away from coming against the mattress just from eating you out. You taste as good as you smell, Sash.”

Thrown, Sascha looked at him, read his face, detected no untruth there. “God, Mischa,” he said, because he didn’t know what else he could say after Mischa had admitted something like _that_.

Mischa smiled, tipped his chin up. “Hungry?” 

They sat on the living room couch to eat, swathed in blankets, leaving a cheesy sitcom on TV for background noise. The soup was a simple chicken noodle but after so many days of eating purely for nourishment it was heaven; Sascha took one bite and moaned aloud. Mischa was so used to hearing the sound of his brother’s pleasure in another context that he felt mild arousal flooding through him and bit the side of his tongue to curb himself.

“For real,” said Sascha, after he’d swallowed. “You _are_ my hero. This is kingly right now.”

“I’m my own hero, too, to be honest,” said Mischa, and grinned. “Who knew Campbell’s could taste like this?”

“I could eat McDonald’s right now and it would be like eating Ruth’s Chris,” said Sascha frankly. “Seriously, Meesh. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Mischa, and they beamed at each other.

Sprawled on the couch together they passed the evening, Sascha’s back to Mischa’s front, Mischa’s forearm crooked over Sascha’s hip, fingers braided loosely together. At around nine o’clock the phone rang; it was the front desk calling to inform them that a flight had been booked for them the following afternoon at one fifteen pm. For a long deep moment after Mischa hung up they looked at each other and Sascha’s eyes were sad, sad, sad.

“I don’t want to go,” he said, and Mischa tucked his brother’s yellow head back against his chest and stroked through his hair and tried not to think about the fact that tomorrow they would be leaving their little haven to return to everyday routine.

*

Lulled by the mild constant grumble of the reducing storm, they dozed on the couch until around midnight, then Mischa realized where they were and shook Sascha tenderly awake so they could relocate to somewhere more comfortable. Subconsciously they chose Mischa’s room, knowing unpolluted air and a clean bed awaited them, and they were not disappointed when they climbed into the crisp sheets. The bed had barely been slept in; Mischa had spent so many of his nights on the island switching from hammock to couch to Sascha’s bed that his own room had gone fairly neglected. He was grateful for it now, he had missed the feeling of fresh sheets, and from the way Sascha was stretching and _mmmm_ ing he knew that he was feeling the same way.

On and off they slept, all braided limbs and close breath, restless for the anxiety of tomorrow. Often when Mischa stirred Sascha was already awake and vice versa; they were both conscious of the desire to enjoy their last bit of time together, and to sleep it away seemed wasteful. When the first mercurial fingers of gray dawn began their sly creep into the room Mischa sighed aloud and pulled Sascha against his chest and kissed his damp forehead.

“Fuck this noise,” said Sascha, voice a rumble, and Mischa chuckled in agreement, knowing he was referring to their current mutual inability to rest.

“We should have stayed up.”

Sascha reached over, stroked along Mischa’s bristly jawline. When he spoke it was a murmur.

“Let’s not go back to sleep. I want to just…you know…be with you.”

“Couldn’t sleep if I wanted to right now,” said Mischa truthfully, and drew him in closer. “You want to talk?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, leaning up, “and…”

He kissed Mischa gently on the mouth. Mischa kissed him back, injecting as much emotion as he possibly could into the gesture, and Sascha relaxed against him, validated, pliant. For a while they stayed just as they were, kissing and looking at each other and touching each other’s faces in contented silence, and then Sascha raised up on an elbow and sketched a valiant forefinger down Mischa’s sternum. Mischa couldn’t breathe.

“This isn’t fair,” said Sascha quietly, and Mischa knew exactly what he meant: _that we can’t be together_. He cleared his throat over the sudden thickness there. 

“I know, Sash,” he said, and the depth of misery in his own voice shocked him. “I know it’s not.”

“I don’t,” began Sascha, and then he paused, unsure of exactly how to proceed. “I. I’m around Alphas on tour all the time, and none of them – I’ve never _wanted_ this from any of them.”

Mischa waited, because he knew that Sascha needed to say this, and he needed to hear it. He sifted careful fingers through his brother’s hair and concentrated on the in-out of his breath, on staying alive. At last Sascha said,

“I thought about it, you know. When I was trying to find an Alpha, and – and before that. I thought about you.”

“Yeah,” croaked Mischa, “yeah, Sash. I thought about it, too. Obviously.”

Sascha cracked his crooked grin, but the worry in his eyes failed to dissipate. He circled that brave finger slow around Mischa’s navel, almost but not quite absentminded in his movement, and looked away.

“I really am yours, Mischa. Always have been.”

“Come here,” said Mischa, destroyed, and Sascha swung one lissome thigh over Mischa’s hips and climbed him, matched their torsos flush and bent down so they could kiss, savoring each other in the gradually burgeoning dawn. Mischa opened for Sascha’s tongue, let him investigate under first his top, then his bottom lip, along the rows of his teeth, teased fingernails down Sascha’s spine. Innocent at first, then inevitably wanton as they moved and sighed and tasted each other, and when Sascha’s hand settled at Mischa’s hip, dipping cautious fingertips under his waistband, Mischa pulled back and looked at him, eyes molasses-dark from lust. There was not a single excuse that existed in the world now and he knew that they should not proceed but he was weak, weak, weak.

“Sash…” 

“Tell me no,” breathed Sascha, dropping openmouthed kisses along the arch of Mischa’s throat, “and I’ll stop.”

Mischa hesitated for a fraction of an instant and then he put his hand atop Sascha’s where it rested at his waist, lifted his hips so Sascha could pull his shorts down. Sascha did so with the utmost care, freeing Mischa from his clothes before slipping gracefully out of his own, relaxing back atop him so he could ruck their hips together. He framed Mischa’s face between his palms and kissed him until he was cosmos-eyed and then he reached between them and gripped Mischa’s cock and stroked him once, twice, flicking an assured thumb over his leaking slit. Wetting him, prepping him. With sudden clarity Mischa knew what they were going to do and he had never wanted anything more in his life; he was cogent and there was no drunken heat fugue on which to blame the lust seething between them and he was not afraid. When Sascha took his own cock in the same hand and jerked them gently together Mischa closed his eyes and hissed because Sascha was _dripping_ precome and he could feel his brother’s wetness slicking his skin and how could they ever turn back from this now?

Sascha continued that same murderous cadence, long stroke from base to crown, spreading their wetness around until every inch of Mischa’s dick was slippery with it and they were both drowning in hallucinogenic pleasure. Then he shifted his hips forward so he could slide Mischa’s cock along the cleft between his legs, dragging himself up, down, up until Mischa was panting for it. When he gave a low broken moan Sascha smiled, kissed him, satisfied.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Mischa blinked; it did nothing to clear his head. Sascha rolled his hips up and the motion forced Mischa’s cockhead to brush against his entrance; they both swore aloud. Mischa raised his eyes, found Sascha’s own, pupils blown crow-black from want, and exhaled. “Sash – are you sure?”

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure of in my life, Mischa,” said Sascha quietly, and then Mischa was kissing him like he was _air_ and Sascha was settling, sinking down, immersing Mischa’s cock with his heat as gently, gently they came together again. When every inch of him was buried inside Sascha’s tightness Mischa bit into his shoulder and groaned aloud.

“Fuck.”

“God,” hissed Sascha, “ _yes_. Fucking amazing, Mischa.”

“So are you,” said Mischa, rusty, and seized the scruff of Sascha’s neck before he brought his hand around to press habitually at the tapestry of vivid bruises painting Sascha’s throat. “Is this okay? Are you comfortable?”

“Mischa, you’ve fucked me open so many times this week that you could probably stick it in dry,” said Sascha frankly, and Mischa felt his cock _pulse_ for that. “I feel great, you feel perfect. Let me move for you.”

“Yes,” said Mischa with indecent fervor, so Sascha rolled his hips, first side to side, then gently up and down, twisting so Mischa could feel all of him from the inside. He knew how to angle himself so Mischa _groaned_ for the pleasure and from the bitten-lip indulgence sketched across Sascha’s lovely face it was clear that he was taking care of himself, too. They were so familiar with each other by now that it was easy as a breeze, no clumsy quest for proper rhythm, only an effortless, sinuous motion that brought them both quickly to orgasm. So acclimated to the process had he become that it was strange to Mischa when he didn’t knot – Alphas only knotted for Omegas in heat – but he was so assuaged by now that one orgasm was enough, and it was _cataclysmic_ , his fingers roped around Sascha’s wrists, Sascha’s eyes locked to his as he came in hard slick arcs across the valleys of Mischa’s abdomen. Mischa couldn’t stop saying his brother’s name, the unholiest of incantations, but he didn’t care.

Afterward when Mischa kissed Sascha heavily on the mouth it felt like a promise, an ending, a beginning. Even if his intentions had been solely pure, Mischa volunteering to get Sascha through his heat had been morally ambiguous at best; what they had just done, slept with each other for no reason other than that they simply wanted and maybe needed to, could not be glossed over. The elusive line that they had been toeing had unequivocally been traversed. No matter what happened going forward, they would always shelter this secret between them. 

*

On autopilot they ate, showered, packed what few items they had left out during their brief stay at the new hut. Neither of them could conceal a thing from the other; there were no valiant attempts at lightening the mood, they both knew what stretched before them and it was nothing but bleak. Sascha’s chains rested glimmering against the bruises Mischa had wrought upon his skin and they both stood before the bathroom mirror to examine them, Mischa going over Sascha’s throat with his tongue once again, soothing the inflamed skin. Sascha watched his progress and his stomach was rocks and apprehension and when Mischa had finished he took his brother’s face in his hands and sighed.

“We have to stop, don’t we,” said Sascha, and it was not a question.

Mischa felt his extremities go numb.

“I – ” he said, and swallowed. “Yeah, Sash. We probably should.”

“I know,” said Sascha listlessly, but still they kissed and Mischa felt like he could cry. He didn’t know which emotion to focus on but his face and his throat were burning and his chest was constricted and he couldn’t admit it to himself but he felt like throwing up every time he thought of going back to Evgeniya. It had not occurred to him that she might take one look at him and know; that wasn’t what he was worried about. What made his throat close up was the fact that not once in all the time he had been with her had he felt anything close to how he had felt with Sascha in the past week.

And just like that, they were leaving. They took a taxi to the airport in the rain – little more than a playful summer storm now, a mockery of the savage tempest that had so thoroughly scourged the island – and went through the motions of checking in, wandering through security, texting their family, collapsing by a window to watch the aircraft coming and going. Just for something to do Mischa volunteered to get them both Starbucks, checking for Sascha over his shoulder every few seconds; even being thirty feet apart, within sight of each other, that persistent itch of separation began to ripple within his blood.

He was unsettled. When he returned clutching two milky cold brews he could see from the pale sheen of Sascha’s face that he was, too. Without being conscious of what he was doing he gripped the scruff of Sascha’s neck and pushed at the tension there and Sascha _purred_.

“Please don’t stop,” he said, helpless, so Mischa didn’t. He kept his hand pressed to Sascha’s neck until they boarded their flight, and when they settled into their seats he linked their arms together, casual as a smile. It wasn’t just Sascha who needed the contact and when he thought about it he couldn’t remember how to inhale. _No matter what, you no bite him. Promise me_ , Marcelo had said, and Mischa had not listened, had been too weak to battle his own roaring instinct. Now they were paying for it and Mischa wasn’t sure what a bond felt like but he was sure that he and Sascha had never been this reliant upon each other in their lives and every time they touched it felt like Midas, transforming the most mundane of things into glittering gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of filth to prepare us for the angst, because it is coming...oh god, it is coming. Prepare yourselves <3


	9. Chapter 9

BERLIN

Berlin in winter was stark, the color of metal, unforgiving. This particular season was not markedly worse than others but they’d been in a tropical climate for so long that the temperature felt impossibly cold when they stepped off the plane; as soon as they were secure in the terminal Mischa pulled Sascha to the side so they could pull hoodies and winter hats and gloves out of their carry-ons.

“I fucking hate this,” grumbled Sascha with his head half stuck in the neck of his sweatshirt, feathery hair tufted sideways, and Mischa smiled.

“We could have gone straight to Monaco, you know.”

“Everyone’s expecting us to go to Berlin,” said Sascha. He meant Irina and Alex. “That’s where...things always happen.”

“Things?” Mischa was smirking. 

“You know what I mean.” Sascha’s face was peony pink.

“Well, the plans have already changed drastically as it is, so you probably could have gotten away with it.” Mischa reached out automatically to adjust Sascha’s collar, pull it up over the condemning marks on his skin. “You’ll have to cover these up in front of Marcelo.”

“How bad are they?” Sascha’s eyes were apprehensive.

“Um.” It was Mischa’s turn to flush. “About as bad as they were when we left the island, I guess. You’re sure it doesn’t hurt?”

“It really doesn’t, Mischa, I promise,” said Sascha. “Stop worrying. Let’s get out of here so we can go make some fucking tea or something at my place, it’s freezing.”

In anxious silence they walked together to baggage claim, stood together wide-eyed and shivering by the appropriate conveyer belt. Even before they had mated it had always been instinct for Mischa to cup his hand around the nape of Sascha’s neck and now was no different; when his fingers clenched around Sascha’s skin the ease of his brother’s shoulders was profound.

“Sash, are you okay?” 

“No,” said Sascha, quietly. “Are you?”

Mischa paused. When he spoke his voice was grim.

“No.”

And he wasn’t, not in any way, shape, or form. They were home; they were a step closer to facing their new reality. As much as Sascha tried to conceal the bite marks Mischa had wrought upon him, it was inevitable that Marcelo would find out, because that was his nature: he just _knew_ things. Mischa was terrified that he would take one look at them and understand everything that had happened: how Sascha’s face had gone white when Mischa had told him he would have to go back to Monte Carlo the day after landing in Berlin to avoid suspicion; how Mischa felt physically ill at the prospect of leaving Sascha alone. Sascha was his to tend, he had always been, it was just that his possessiveness had never quite reached this level before.

When they arrived back at Sascha’s flat the insidious winter evening was already curling around them, frosty skies and biting winds. The possibility of snow never seemed more than a moment away and after the drenching humidity of the Maldives Berlin felt like a separate planet. Marcelo would be arriving the following morning; Mischa would make sure Sascha was settled before he left him to Marcelo’s care, and then he would go, and he couldn’t think about anything past that because he already knew that the separation would not feel good for either of them.

Sascha had turned the heat off before they’d left and now he busied himself buzzing around his apartment, thermostat up, space heaters and lights on, Keurig brewing in the kitchen. Mischa stood leaning on the wall watching him, fond amusement in his eyes, and he knew they should be trying to separate themselves from last week but right now he could not bring himself to do so. The truth was that there was nowhere else in the world he would rather have been than where he was, in that ethereal freezing city on their last foreseeable night together alone.

When Sascha had successfully completed all of the little tasks he had set for himself he backed up against the counter, hopped up on it, gave a long suffering sigh as he bit into his lower lip. Across the way their gazes met and Sascha gave an automatic half smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Mischa knew what they had talked about and he knew what they hadn’t talked about and right then he didn’t care. In the air between them he could smell how Sascha’s pheromones called to him, an Omega fresh off heat seeking comfort from their Alpha, and without half a thought he crossed the short distance to where Sascha perched on the counter, stood directly between his legs. Gently he framed a huge hand around one side of his brother’s face; Sascha closed his eyes and leaned hard into the touch, powerless.

“I thought,” he said, voice unsteady, “we were going to try not to do this.”

Mischa stroked a thumb over the perfect angle of Sascha’s cheekbone.

“Do you want that, Sash?” 

Sascha opened his eyes and they were more honest than Mischa had ever seen them.

“No.”

“Me neither,” said Mischa, and he kissed him.

Sascha melted for him, seized the front of Mischa’s hoodie and pulled him in, brow furrowed with intensity. They had not been physically intimate since they had left the Maldives, save for light little touches and looped arms and fingers around the scruffs of each other’s necks, and it showed. As soon as they touched the air cleared and the sun started shining in their veins and the immediate change was not lost on either of them.

“I need this, Mischa,” said Sascha, ragged. “I still need it.” 

“I know, Sash,” said Mischa against his mouth. “I do, too.”

It was like this that they stayed, one degree less than frantic for each other, until the Keurig started beeping at them in irritation; Sascha reached over to turn it off and Mischa nuzzled into his neck, lapping at the tender bitemarks there. Sascha shivered.

“Do you want your tea? We can take it to the living room.”

“Yeah,” said Mischa. “Let’s go to the couch and get under some blankets or something. Do you have food here or do you want that Chinese we were talking about on the island?” 

“Chinese,” said Sascha immediately. “I haven’t had lo mein in ages.”

So they called for takeout, collected their steaming mugs, walked out to the living room with Mischa’s hand planted low on Sascha’s spine. Sascha pulled blankets from the back of the couch and wrapped in them they huddled together for warmth and comfort, Mischa’s fingers connecting the dots on Sascha’s freckled face. Looking at each other for all the world like they were in love, captivated, moon-eyed.

For what felt like the hundredth time Mischa said,

“Is it like this with Marcelo?”

And Sascha said,

“No,” thinking, _not even close._

*

By the time their food arrived the apartment had warmed considerably and the uncertainty that had started between them after they had left the island was more or less nonexistent. They both understood that it was not right for them to feel this way, needy and lovey and clinging to each other, but then again they had always been closer than normal siblings and the fact that Mischa had just spent the last four and a half days fucking Sascha blind was undeniable. They would deal with the consequences only when forced to. 

They ate on the floor of the living room, television switched on as mindless background noise, soaking each other in. Sascha was painfully aware of the fact that after the next day he would not see Mischa for at least two and a half weeks and he was terrified. He had no idea how he was going to deal with Mischa’s absence when such a tiny thing as being too far across the room from his brother made him uneasy; the only time he felt truly normal right now was when Mischa was within reach.

They were both neglecting their phones; five days of saving battery power had significantly reduced the need to check for new notifications. Sascha didn’t have the patience to appease the worry of his mother or face the bombardment of questions from Olya; similarly, Mischa couldn’t lie to himself and say that he wasn’t avoiding communication with his wife. The scent of Sascha hung all over him and he had no idea how he’d be able to erase that, didn’t think he even wanted to.

Sascha said carefully, picking at the last of his noodles, “When are you leaving tomorrow?”

“My flight’s not until four,” said Mischa. “I wanted something later, but Evgeniya wanted me home today, so...”

“I get it,” said Sascha. “Thanks for staying, Meesh.”

“Like I would leave you alone,” said Mischa. He tucked his forefinger under Sascha’s chin, tilted it up. “I’m sorry that I have to go.” 

“It’s not your fault,” said Sascha dismissively. “If you didn’t leave while Marcelo was here it would look weird. Surely even Mum and Dad know that you guys would Alpha the fuck out of each other if you were both around me during a heat.”

“I’d win,” muttered Mischa automatically, and Sascha chuckled.

“Now you would.”

“I _always_ would have,” corrected Mischa, arching an eyebrow. “He has a bond. I don’t. In a normal situation, at least, that would automatically make my urge to - you know, get with you - more intense than his.”

Sascha was grinning. “ _Get with me_? Meesh, you’re so chaste.”

Mischa ran his hand up the inside of Sascha’s thigh, paused where he knew he’d left tender bitemark bruises, pressed gently in so Sascha gasped. “Am I?”

“Yes. So innocent. You’re like a saint or something, going around doing good deeds for other people.” Sascha clamped his palm over the back of Mischa’s hand, squeezed. “Mainly me.”

“Mainly you.” Mischa kissed Sascha on the lips, knew he shouldn’t, but Sascha’s mouth was honey and he craved that sweet like nothing else and Sascha kissed him back as though he was aching for it. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Without you, you mean?” Sascha kept his eyes closed after Mischa pulled back, savoring. “I mean, I hope so. We don’t really have a choice.”

“I know,” said Mischa, heavy. “I can’t exactly bring you with me.”

“No. It’s too fresh right now. I’d be all over you, and I don’t think your wife would like that very much,” said Sascha wryly. “Mischa, it’s gonna get easier, right? To not - be near each other all the time?”

“Yeah, of course,” said Mischa, lying through his teeth, because in reality he had absolutely no idea. “We’ll just have to get back into our normal routine and after a while I’m sure it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

Sascha raised his eyebrows and Mischa flushed.

“Okay,” he said, “it’ll never be like that. I just meant it won’t be so intense, and we’ll be able to hide what happened from everyone. Right now, I’m not sure either of us could.”

“Yeah. Thank God Marcelo knows,” said Sascha, “otherwise we’d be fucked.”

“Is Kubot coming with him tomorrow?” Mischa hadn’t thought of it, knew so little of Sascha and Marcelo’s heat routine. “Does he normally?”

“No. God no. When he’s sane he’s perfectly fine with it, but hanging around his Alpha fucking another Omega would be torture on a biological level,” said Sascha. “He’d get really depressed, really sad. Usually he goes with his family to some tropical island while Marcelo gets me through my heats so he can just be off the grid and not worry about anything.”

“I would imagine he’d get depressed,” said Mischa, and his mind was _whirring_ but he couldn’t entertain any of those errant thoughts, not now. “He’s the saint, not me. He must really trust Marcelo.”

“He does,” said Sascha softly, little smile in his eyes, thumb automatically stroking the veiny underside of Mischa’s wrist. “They’re really in love, Meesh. He knows how I am, and he knows how Marcelo is. I’d never do anything to fuck it up, and neither would he. It’s purely out of necessity that we do what we do.”

“If you weren’t so picky,” said Mischa, grinning, and Sascha pinned him down with a gaze.

“Yeah, well, no one smells quite like you, do they.”

Mischa’s stomach flipped.

“What do you mean?”

But he knew. Sascha was referring once again to his first heat, Mischa young and unrestrained with his invasive Alpha pheromones flooding Sascha’s system. How helpless they’d both been, how unprepared. Sascha was implying that he’d used Mischa’s scent as a standard of comparison his whole life, and Mischa wasn’t sure how to handle that knowledge. Outside of the warm protective glow of Sascha’s heat, talking about these things felt like treason, and he could tell from the expression on Sascha’s face that he hadn’t meant to say it; when Sascha shook his head and muttered, “nevermind,” Mischa didn’t push. He wasn’t in the correct mental state to dive further into that statement, either.

*

As both of them had anticipated, they barely slept that night. In Sascha’s bed they lay side by side with their legs entwined, layered in clothes and blankets and the underlying heat of their shame. Mischa had never before understood the difference between _guilt_ and _shame_ but it was obvious to him now: the former was internal, birthed from one’s own emotion; the latter was external, based on the knowledge that whatever iniquitous deed had been done would cause others pain, or be considered morally wrong by humanity in general. He knew that what he and Sascha had done together should fall under both categories but he still couldn’t feel guilt for it; he had saved Sascha from agony and a total season collapse, and he had had permission to do it. The only time he felt any sort of guilt at all was when he caught a glimpse of the vicious bitemarks he’d left upon his brother’s skin. He didn’t know if they’d bonded, didn’t know _how_ to tell, but he certainly hadn’t helped matters by biting Sascha as many times as he had.

Sascha read the worry on his face and propped up on an elbow.

“What is it, Mischa?”

Mischa flashed a joyless half smile.

“What isn’t it?”

Sascha smirked. “True.”

“How long will Marcelo stay with you?”

“Three days, four at most. That way it can look like the length of a true heat. Then next week I’ll come to Monaco,” said Sascha. “Are you gonna come over when Mum and Dad visit?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sash,” said Mischa quietly. He had been thinking about that visit – more specifically, how he could avoid it – for some time, and he was coming up empty. "I don't know if they'll let me get away with not seeing them, but you and me being together in front of them, and with Evi there..."

“Right.” Sascha made a face. “I hate this. You’re my brother, and my best friend. I don’t want to be forced to stay away from you.”

Mischa laced their fingers together, sighed. “Me neither.”

“I should have brought extra meds.”

“And I should regret what we did, but I don’t.” Mischa knew he shouldn’t say things like that but he couldn’t help it, he and Sascha had never been anything but honest with each other, except when they weren’t - and in those cases it always, always came back to their mutual attraction. Because they _were_ attracted to each other, and they had been since Sascha hit puberty, and it was something that Mischa had repressed and crushed like garbage at the bottom of a chute but his stalwart denial did not make it any less of a fact.

“I don’t, either,” said Sascha, after a pause in which he could not speak for relief; he could work himself into spirals of doubt, doubt, doubt. “Not at all.” 

“Good,” said Mischa, “because I could not live with myself if you did.”

Gently he kissed the tips of Sascha’s fingertips; Sascha hummed happily and Mischa watched him with sad eyes. He had no idea what was going to happen next but if this intense post-heat feeling didn’t fade he knew they were fucked. As it stood the current nature of their relationship could be spotted from the air without a telescope, and there was no one in this world that was shrewder than their father. They had less than three weeks to wipe the mutual adoration from their eyes and Mischa didn’t see how that could be achieved, not when Sascha looked at him as though he were the Northern Star, not when he had to be touching Sascha every minute of every day to feel baseline normal.

*

In the morning Mischa left Sascha dreaming amongst the abundance of blankets and went to the kitchen to brew them each a cup of coffee. Outside it was flurrying, pure white flecks that melted immediately against the windowpane, and he had the fleeting thought of being trapped by yet another weather catastrophe before he pushed it aside. It was cold, but it wasn’t bad enough to stick. Berlin’s airport was known for its exemplary inclement weather procedures. He would be fine.

And if he had to stay, he reasoned, he would be with Sascha.

When the coffee was done he tiptoed carefully back into Sascha’s room, set the mugs on his bedside table, perched beside him on the mattress and trailed a finger gently along the line of his cheekbone. He wanted badly to kiss Sascha awake; knew he should abstain, because if there was one thing of which he was fully certain it was that they could not continue being physical if they ever wanted to resume normality.

“Sash,” he said, quietly. “I made you coffee.” 

Sascha stirred, squirmed, blinked his eyes slowly open.

“Mm. Hey.”

Mischa couldn’t help but smile; he was adorable.

“Hey.”

“You made coffee?”

“Yeah.” Mischa reached over, grabbed his cup from the table, handed it to Sascha as he struggled to sit up. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Sascha beamed sleepily at him. “Thank you, Mischa.”

“You’re welcome, Sash,” said Mischa fondly, and for a moment they sat together in silence, blowing across the blazing surfaces of their cups, thinking.

“What time is it?”

“About ten thirty,” said Mischa. “Marcelo should be here in about two hours. Are we picking him up, or is he getting a car?”

“He’s getting a car,” said Sascha. “I think he kind of gets that we don’t want to spend today driving to the airport to grab him.”

“He’s smart,” said Mischa. “Too smart.”

Sascha smirked, but it was all nerves. “He’s going to find out you bit me, Meesh. Just prepare yourself for that.” 

“I know,” sighed Mischa. “You’re black and blue all over your throat, you can’t wear turtlenecks until the bruises fade.” 

“I can, but it would be obvious.” Sascha sipped at his coffee. “Whatever. He’ll probably freak out, but he knows he’s in this with us, for better or worse.”

“He’s complicit,” said Mischa. “And I kind of love him for it, even though he makes me Alpha as fuck right now.”

“Fighting for my honor.”

“Honor?” Mischa smirked. “Don’t know about that.”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Sascha, grinning, pleased. “Do you want us to take you to the airport?”

“Yes,” said Mischa, “but I’m going to want to kiss you goodbye, so no.”

Sascha looked at him and every emotion he had felt over the past week came pouring in; today was the day that he had dreaded, the day where Mischa would leave him, and the realization was so much that he had to bite his tongue to keep away sudden tears.

Mischa saw it in his face and his stomach contracted. “Sascha...”

“I don’t want you to go,” said Sascha quietly, and dropped his head forward onto Mischa’s shoulder. 

Dimly Mischa understood that some - most - of this reaction was likely driven by the fact that Sascha had just come out of one of the most intense heats of his life; it was natural that he as an Omega should crave the care and touch of the Alpha who had helped him through it. It was all Mischa could do not to give in, to craft some elaborate excuse for Evgeniya, _I have to stay another day because_ x, y, z. But he knew that the longer he waited to go home, the higher suspicions would mount, and he could not put his wife off for another day. 

“I have to, Sash,” he said miserably, twining his fingers through Sascha’s lion-mane hair. “You know I have to.” 

“I know,” said Sascha, subdued, into Mischa’s chest. “I’m just really going to miss you. It’s not going to feel right without you.”

Mischa kissed the top of his head. “Do you think having Marcelo here will help?”

“I hope so,” said Sascha, “but I don’t know. I won’t know how I’ll feel until you’re gone.”

In spite of Mischa’s early-morning resolve not to perpetuate physicality, they ended up showering together, wrapped around one another under the hot stream of water, drinking each other greedily in preparation of the dry spell that awaited them. Mischa was not sure what Sascha wanted from this in the future and he could not ask; for all intents and purposes this might be the last time they ever held each other like this, and he knew that if they had not been so sexually satiated from the previous week he would have fucked Sascha against the shower wall, brought him slow and slow and slow to climax. He wanted the freedom to do this whenever they wished in the years to come but he didn’t trust himself right then: where Sascha was consumed by his Omega nature, he was all Alpha, and this was no state of mind for him to make practical decisions. Of course they couldn’t continue this. Of course once they spent a little time apart the intensity would fade.

Of course.

*

When Marcelo came he blew in the front hallway like a stormgust, white snowflakes peppering the black of his hair, cursing the cold. Sascha and Mischa poked their heads in from the kitchen, grinning at his vexation, and when he saw them he arched one dark eyebrow, smirked.

“Hello, Zverevs.”

“Hello, Marcelo,” they chanted back at him, and he shook his head. 

“Is fucking misery here in the winter,” he said grumpily, stomping his boots on the welcome mat to clear them of condensation. “Don’t know how you stay. Not even Sascha’s heat to keep me warm this year.”

Mischa had wondered how long it might take him to make a reference; thirty seconds was being generous. He rolled his eyes at Marcelo, who raised his hands, genial.

“Kidding. So. How are my lovebirds doing?” 

Both Sascha and Mischa turned the approximate mottled red of cardinal feathers; Mischa muttered and Sascha cleared his throat and Marcelo burst out laughing.

“It’s not funny,” said Sascha indignantly, but Marcelo’s face didn’t drain of amusement.

“It is, kiddo, looking back at it,” said Marcelo. “You not bring extra meds, you get stuck, you learn. Yes?”

“Yes,” said Sascha glumly, and Marcelo’s expression cleared.

“It’s okay, Sash,” he said. “You just young, yet. Mischa, I can hug him? You okay with that?” 

Mischa’s first instinct was surprise that Marcelo had asked; there was no reason he could think of that Marcelo should need his permission, but then it hit him, sledgehammer force: he was Sascha’s acting Alpha, a title he had taken handily from Marcelo. The Brazilian was asking because he was cautious of Mischa’s reaction.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat, “yeah, that’s fine. Just not, like, too long, okay?”

He hadn’t known he was going to say the last sentence until it was in the air between them; Sascha turned to look at him and instinctively nuzzled his forehead across Mischa’s own. The insinuation could not have been clearer: _don’t worry, I’m yours_. Mischa had just enough time to feel warm everywhere before he caught Marcelo’s expression and what he saw there - surprise, suspicion - did not sit well. Then Sascha was walking over to him and they were embracing and Mischa was _shaken_ by how physically ill he felt. His Omega hugging another Alpha so soon after heat felt horrifically wrong and then he realized that he had subconsciously thought of Sascha as _his Omega_ and his triphammer heartbeat paused. 

“Mischa, come here, I hug you too,” said Marcelo, and despite everything Mischa went, let Marcelo embrace him, surprised himself by how fiercely he clutched back. Without Marcelo they could not have made it through the previous week as smoothly as they had; without Marcelo, they could not pull off the con game they were about to attempt. He would be grateful for his help for the rest of his life.

“Both of you, you’re okay,” said Marcelo, when he let go. “Yes?” 

Sascha and Mischa looked at each other.

“I think so,” said Mischa at last. “It’s just been a lot, you know?”

“Well, of course,” said Marcelo, and his practicality was more refreshing than Mischa could have hoped for. “You’re brothers, you just have sex with each other, now you have to go back to real life. If that not confusing, nothing is.”

Sascha’s shoulders relaxed.

“It’s a mess, Marcelo.”

“It is,” agreed Marcelo. “Big mess, I say to Mischka. But important thing is, your season saved. You are not in pain. Both of you are home. Now we just get through next few days, convince Mom and Dad Zverev nothing happened on that island, and...golden.”

He seemed so sure of himself that Mischa couldn’t help but see a sliver of hope. Maybe they would be okay; maybe there would be no lingering consequences and they could go back to reality like their vacation had been nothing but ordinary.

Sascha made fresh coffee for all of them while Mischa swept around the apartment ensuring that his things were packed. Sascha tried not to look down at the floor, at Mischa’s bags all zipped and ready to go, and instead looked out the window clutching his mug, listening to Marcelo discuss his woes with the weather, aware that he would have to face a barrage of questions when Mischa left. He hoped that Marcelo would give him some time to breathe. He had a feeling that he would forget how to for a little while.

*

The time for Mischa to take a car to the airport came so quickly Sascha had no time to mentally prepare; he had spent so much of the past two days turning away from the reality of the situation that when the gravity of it all hit him it was harder than it might have been. Sascha stood helplessly watching as Mischa ordered his Uber and threw on his coat and scarf, eyes huge, lower lip in bloody ribbons from ceaseless chewing.

Marcelo hugged Mischa goodbye first and Mischa found that despite the fact that he was leaving Sascha alone with another Alpha - one who was very, very close to him - he had no fear of Marcelo’s intention. Marcelo had never stepped out of bounds with Sascha, and he and Lukasz were as close as any bondmates Mischa had ever seen. He was the best possible substitute for Mischa in this most impossible situation.

“I take care of him, Mischka,” said Marcelo gently, clapping him on the shoulder, all empathetic smile and concerned eyes. “You not worry. You do your job, now you let me do mine.”

“Just keep me posted, please,” said Mischa miserably. “If he needs anything, if he gets bad. Tell me.”

“I will,” said Marcelo. “But you have to go now. He will be fine. He just need to get used to life without you for a little bit.”

“I’m right here, you guys,” said Sascha in mild irritation, and Marcelo without skipping a single beat said,

“Nothing you don’t already know, Sash. I give you a minute now.”

Casually he loped out of the room and Mischa had time to be flooded with gratitude for Marcelo’s discretion before he and Sascha were alone again and it felt like the world was whirling in reverse around them.

“Mischa,” said Sascha powerlessly, all liquid eyes, and Mischa went to him and folded him into his arms.

“Sascha.” 

Sascha buried his face unhappily into Mischa’s shoulder, drew a shaky breath; he was quivering everywhere and Mischa could feel it.

“We can’t keep doing this, can we.”

Mischa hesitated. The correct answer was _no_ ; the correct answer was _of course not_. Mischa had gotten Sascha through a powerful heat, he had ensured that his brother’s health and season were intact, and that was where it was supposed to end. They would go back to their lives: Mischa to Evi, Sascha to his elusive pickiness and hatred of commitment, and no one would ever have to know what had happened between them on that little island, that in the midst of a volcanic storm they had discovered just how flawlessly compatible they were, matched like complementary colors. Different, but each perfectly accentuated by the other. 

Mischa thought of how his mind had automatically referred to Sascha as _my Omega_ and shivered. 

“No, Sash,” he said, and his voice was not steady because he wanted to ask _do you want to_ but he couldn’t. They had gotten away with the last day and a half because they were still alone and no one in the world knew and they needed each other, but they were out of excuses. “I don’t think we can.”

Sascha swallowed and it was so sharp that Mischa heard it, thick gulp over the lump in his throat.

“I know,” he said miserably. “I know we can’t. But this last week - it was so good, Mischa, and not just the sex. No matter what happens, I want you to know that. I’ve never felt like this before, not with anyone. And that means something to me.”

“It does to me too, Sash,” said Mischa, and his mouth was suddenly dry as a summer day in Vegas, drained. “It means a lot to me, too. I can’t - I don’t know what to say.”

“I love you,” said Sascha, and his voice was fervent but his eyes were dull and Mischa’s heart was shattering. “I love you, and I always will, and you’re always going to be my brother and my best friend. Please tell me this doesn’t change things. Please tell me we won’t be awkward around each other now.”

“We won’t,” said Mischa, and he meant it. “We’re just going to have to accept that it’s going to be difficult. Like, I’m probably going to have to double my suppressant dosage around you from now on.”

He grinned, sheepishly, and Sascha smiled.

“I better triple my deodorant usage, then.”

Mischa smiled, and then he put his forehead to Sascha’s and they were kissing, hard, emotional, because maybe this would be the last time they’d ever get the chance in their lives.

“I love you, Sascha,” Mischa whispered against Sascha’s mouth, because he hadn’t said it back earlier and it was so, so important that he made Sascha understand. If things were different, if they didn’t share each other’s blood, if, if, if. “More than anyone, I love you. I hope you know what you are to me.”

“I do know,” said Sascha. “Mischa...if you weren’t my brother.”

“I know,” said Mischa. “I know, Sash, me too.”

Unbidden, helpless tears began to drip down Sascha’s face; frustrated, he swiped at his cheeks and tried to smile, but Mischa could see how close he was to losing it.

“Sash, no,” he said, desperately, instinct rearing its head. _Help him_ , his Alpha nature screamed, _fix him, he’s your responsibility_. “Please don’t cry, please. I can’t leave you like this.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Sascha, and despite his efforts his tears were only flowing thicker, faster. “I’m sorry, I just - you’re leaving. I don’t want you to leave. This feels so bad. I don’t know why it feels this bad, Mischa, I don’t, but it does.”

In Mischa’s pocket his phone beeped; the Uber was close, but Mischa was going to lose his mind if he walked away from Sascha like this. He ran his hands up and down Sascha’s arms, through his hair, clutching him. “Sascha, what can I do?” 

“I don’t know,” cried Sascha in frustration. “I don’t know what you can do, except stay.”

In the background Mischa registered movement; Marcelo was in the entranceway watching them, concern etched all over his face. “Mischa, you go. Now. Before he gets worse.”

“I can’t leave when he’s like this,” said Mischa, increasingly agitated; Sascha was clinging to him, pearly tears spotting the collar of his coat, helpless. “He needs me.” 

“Go,” said Marcelo, firmly. “I got him. Go, before you cannot. You call when you can. We talk. Okay?”

Mischa growled in frustration, but he knew Marcelo was right; if he didn’t go now, he would never be able to. He bent down, kissed Sascha squarely on the lips, clutched his lovely fineboned face in his hands. Fuck it if Marcelo saw, fuck what he thought, because at this point he might as well know, that this was the level to which things had progressed. Problematic.

“I love you, Sash. I’ll text you as much as I can until my flight, okay? You’re going to be fine. Marcelo has got you." 

“Okay,” said Sascha, voice thickened with emotion. He looked terrified, and Mischa was numb all over. “I love you, too.”

Mischa met Marcelo’s gaze across the way and the Brazilian’s eyes were grim, grim, grim. He crossed the room to stand behind Sascha and put a hand on his thin arm and as he did Mischa’s phone buzzed again; his Uber had arrived.

“Go,” said Marcelo, and Mischa kissed Sascha once more, slow and gentle on the lips with the salt tang of Sascha’s tears on his tongue, threw his bags over his shoulders and forced himself to walk out the door. The instant it slammed shut behind him he heard Sascha begin to sob, broken gasps torn from his chest, and Mischa was decimated for it. This was his fault, all of it, and he’d never forgive himself for hurting his little brother because Sascha was everything and he was so fragile right now and all Mischa had ever wanted to do was give him the world.

Instead, despite his best efforts, it seemed that he was taking it away.

*

Marcelo turned Sascha around, let him fling himself into his arms, face in his shoulder as he wept openly against Marcelo’s sweatshirt. Sascha was warm, shaky, pliant, displaying all the signs of an Omega freshly separated from his Alpha after heat, and Marcelo was fully aware that the ferocious emotion both brothers were experiencing was not natural after a simple favor fuck. Normally, when Marcelo left Sascha after getting him through his heat each year, they hugged, performed their bro handshake, met up for vacation a week later like nothing had happened. Sascha would be calm and satiated and refreshed and he barely needed cuddles or closeness from Marcelo after around the second day of his cycle. The behavior that he was showcasing now was more in tune with how Lukasz would act if Marcelo had to leave him immediately after one of his heats had concluded - because Marcelo was Lukasz’s Alpha, and Lukasz was Marcelo’s Omega, and they needed each other fiercely after each of Lukasz’s cycles.

Carefully Marcelo drew Sascha over to the couch, sat down with him as he curled into himself, big hands in his hoodie pockets with his messy blonde head dropped to Marcelo’s chest. He was still crying, but the intensity of his sobs had abated slightly, and in his face Marcelo saw chagrin and fear and utter confusion.

“I feel like a fucking moron,” he said, voice a hiccup, and Marcelo ran a comforting hand over his head, chuckled.

“You aren’t,” he said. “At least not for this. He bite you, didn’t he, Sash.”

It wasn’t a question. Sascha sat up, regarded him warily through tear-glossy eyes. 

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you not act like this if Mischa only fuck you through your heat,” said Marcelo patiently. “You do other stuff, didn’t you? Not just sex?”

Sascha flushed, bloody scarlet against the paleness of his hair. In the dimly lit room with his tufty waves and his overbright eyes he looked young, young, young. “Maybe.”

Marcelo twisted his mouth; Sascha could not tell what emotion lay behind his expression, but he thought it was amusement. “Let me see your throat, Sash.”

Obediently Sascha drew his hoodie over his head, leaving him only in gym shorts and a plain white t shirt; his neck was an elaborate tapestry of blue-black bitemarks, bad enough for Marcelo to wince. He leaned over to examine the placement of each mark but they were so abundant he could barely distinguish one from the other and the look on his face filled Sascha with apprehension.

“I know it looks bad,” he said in a rush, “but they actually feel really good. I told Meesh it feels like there’s antibiotic cream all over them, especially when he licks them. I can’t believe I just told you that.”

Despite himself Marcelo was smirking. “ _Nossa_ , Sascha.”

“I know,” said Sascha. “We didn’t mean to, it just felt so good, and I didn’t want him to stop. He was really good about it at first, I swear, but it got so fucking intense, you know? It wasn’t just him. I wanted him to. I didn't exactly make it easy for him to resist. ”

“I know,” said Marcelo. “It’s a natural thing, for Alpha to want to bite Omega, and Omega to want to be bitten.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Sascha, “But if that’s the case, how come you’ve never bitten me?”

Marcelo sighed.

“I think you know why, Sash.”

Sascha felt his throat contract. “Because - because you’re already bonded?”

“Yes,” said Marcelo. “Lukasz is my soul mate. It is extreme violation of bond for me to bite other Omega during heat sex. I only allowed to fuck you because I have his explicit permission, otherwise he in pain the whole time we are together, and I can’t touch you without breaking my own heart, too. And because you are not my bond mate, I feel no desire to bite you. Making sense?”

Sascha’s mouth was parched, no oasis for miles. “Marcelo,” he said slowly. “what are you saying to me right now?”

“I’m saying,” said Marcelo carefully, shrugging in apology, “that bites between unbonded Alphas and Omegas usually create bonds.” 

“But not always, right?” Sascha’s eyes were flared massive, waxed like a harvest moon. “Bites don’t always create bonds?”

“Tell me something, Sash,” said Marcelo, taking his hands, squeezing. “You get along with Evi? You like her?”

“I - she’s okay,” said Sascha, but even as he said it an intense fury like a snake strike whiplashed inside his chest. It shocked him, truly; he had often felt unkindly towards Evgeniya, and he was unhappy that she took up so much of Mischa’s time, but he had never felt so acutely malevolent towards her as this.

Marcelo saw the naked emotion cross his face and shook his head.

“You bad liar, Sash,” he said. “Even before all this, I remember you on Mischa’s wedding day. You big mess. So much sad.”

Sascha bit his lower lip. “I was sad. I was very sad." 

“And you tell me you and Mischa always like each other’s scents, even when you were just teenager.”

“Yeah.” Sascha’s stomach felt strange. “Always.”

“Uh huh.” Marcelo’s eyes were inscrutable. “He bite you anywhere else?”

Sascha hadn’t thought it possible for his face to color a deeper shade of red, but it did. “Uh...yeah. Inner thighs.” 

The last bit was muttered; Marcelo leaned in to try to hear him better.

“Beg pardon?”

Sascha cleared his throat, looked away.

“On the inner thighs,” he said, slightly louder, and Marcelo raised his eyebrows.

“Fuck, Sascha, did you _want_ to bond?” He got in Sascha’s face, unafraid as he always was, and Sascha flinched but he didn’t look away; if Marcelo was swearing in English, it was a big deal. “If he bite you there, the chance of that happening is so strong. The more he bite you, the more likely it is you bond. You understand?”

But he wasn’t moving, and his hands over Sascha’s were warm and firm, and there was no anger or disgust in his face, only intense worry. Not for the first time since the ordeal had began Sascha was furiously grateful for his friend’s loyalty.

“You think we’re bonded?”

“Don’t know,” said Marcelo frankly. “But you a mess right now, and I guarantee that so is he, and you both showing all the signs. Give it a few days, we see how things turn out.”

“What are we going to do?” Sascha’s eyes were all apprehension. “What are we going to do if we are?”

“I don’t know, Sashy,” said Marcelo truthfully, and because he couldn’t think of a single thing to say he pulled Sascha in and hugged him. There was nothing for it just now but to wait it out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooof, this one was rough to write. Our boys are so unhappy :(


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Depth Over Distance (Live at Lowlands) - Ben Howard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8kyodXC7aV0). With earbuds, while you read this. And try not to cry. I think this is something Sascha might listen to when he's feeling the separation the most.

Mischa texted Sascha as soon as he got to the airport, and then, just to cover his bases, he texted Marcelo, because he knew he would get two separate answers to what was essentially the same question: _are you okay?_ And _how is Sascha doing?_

He was right; from Sascha he received: _I’m okay. How are you?_

And from Marcelo he received: _remember how I said you two are big mess? Think bigger._

The latter answer didn’t surprise Mischa in the slightest; he felt Sascha’s absence like a hollow in his chest, he’d gotten used to being near him over the past three weeks and without his brother at his side he was not quite sure what to do. He knew that Sascha was upset; he could sense it, a dull panging ache that he could not pinpoint to a certain area of his body.

 _I know you’re not,_ he wrote to Sascha, _because I’m not_. And to Marcelo he simply asked, _how bad is it?_

 _About as bad as the bruises you give him all over his body, Mischa, what you think?_

Mischa nearly dropped his water bottle on the airport floor.

_God damn it. He said you would know._

From Sascha: _honestly_? _I didn’t think it was possible to miss you as much as I do._

Mischa’s heart soared, a confusing, overtaking emotion paired with his body’s total opposite reaction to what Marcelo was saying. 

_He is crazy over you, Mischa. He miss you like he not see you for five years. This remind me of me and Lukasz. Not good._

Like this the conversation continued, Mischa soothing Sascha and hounding Marcelo, who was being deliberately elusive, until Mischa boarded the plane. For once in his life he was glad that no WiFi was offered for the relatively short flight; all he wanted was to sleep, wipe himself temporarily blank of it all. Sascha’s absence was more apparent by the moment.

*

BERLIN

Marcelo made Sascha a strong whiskey drink to whet his appetite, forced him to eat, sat with him on the couch under blankets with a queue of funny movies on the television. Eventually the tension of Sascha’s spine eased and the alcohol made him relax and by the middle of the first movie he was laughing in a wry sort of way, sufficiently distracted because he was allowing himself to be. All things considered, he was doing well, but Marcelo suspected that it wouldn’t last. Sascha couldn’t dull his mind in front of stupid comedies forever.

“Marcelo,” said Sascha eventually, “what was it like when you bonded with Lukasz?”

Marcelo considered. He’d known Sascha would get curious.

“Intentional,” he said, and Sascha threw him a look, but when he saw that Marcelo was smirking, he relaxed. “We talk about it for a while, you know, are we right for each other, do we want to do this. And it was big yes for both of us, so we do it. And it was amazing, Sash. You and me, our sex is good, yeah? But with Lukasz it’s on another planet. He know me better than I know myself.” 

Sascha was smiling, but his stomach twisted; this sounded all too familiar. “And you bit him?”

“Yeah,” said Marcelo, archly. “He look like you do now, baby Zverev. Black and blue all over.”

“What did you do afterward?” Sascha fingered the line of bruises at his throat, knowing who they belonged to, and he missed Mischa so much he felt it _everywhere_. “Was this during season?”

“No,” said Marcelo, gently. “We would have been disasters trying to play. We stay at my house for two weeks, learn each other, do adorable coupley things, you know. Help strengthen the bond. After that, we become us. Just like that.” 

“What would have happened if you hadn’t spent that time together, afterward?”

“Eh. Just general misery for us both.” Marcelo shrugged. “Lukasz very sad, mopey. For me, lots of anger, depression. But we still bond, and when we come together again it would be just as amazing. Bond is bond. You know this.”

“Not as much as I’d like,” said Sascha, bitterly. “My parents weren’t exactly open with us about stuff like this.”

“No, I imagine not,” said Marcelo. “Two Betas with you guys? Sheesh. I love them, but they are clueless.”

“Yeah. Dad likes pretending things don’t exist when he doesn’t want to deal with them.”

“I’ve noticed.” Marcelo quirked a dark eyebrow. “Maybe good, if it turns out you and Mischa are bonded.”

“If we are,” said Sascha, musing, fingers going automatically to trickle over the bruises on the side of his throat. “If.”

*

MONTE CARLO

It was late when Mischa’s plane touched down in Monaco. Evgeniya met him at the airport, drove up in their sleek black SUV, grinned from ear to ear when she saw him walking out. He smiled back as brilliantly as possible, tried to table thoughts of Sascha so the barrenness wouldn’t splash across his face.

“Hey, stranger,” she said happily, when he jumped into the passenger side door. “You got a tan.”

“I did? Thank God, I thought it might have faded with all that time I spent inside at the end,” said Mischa, winking. He leaned across and pecked her on the mouth - a flash of fear when their lips met, that Sascha might know, but there was nothing to indicate that he did. 

“Eh. Five days stuck inside isn’t enough to erase ten in the sun.” Evgeniya was still smiling; if there was something amiss, she hadn’t noticed. “Did you have fun?”

 _Did we._ “A blast,” said Mischa, blinking in the dark, knowing he had to learn to find that line between too much enthusiasm and not enough, or she would suspect. He feared her misgiving at every turn - how could she look at him and not know what he had been doing? “We really needed the down time.”

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. He tried not to yank it out too eagerly, but the name splashed across the screen was not the one he was looking for.

_He’s sleeping. Good luck, Mischka. Call me when u wanna talk._

Mischa’s stomach was a disaster.

_Is he okay?_

“Good. It looked like a blast. That island is beautiful.” They were driving away from the airport now, Evgeniya’s hand secure in Mischa’s between them, and he was reminded of how extraordinarily small she was. Not like Sascha, whose hands were bigger than his own, fingers curling slightly over Mischa’s when they pressed their palms together. “How did you guys make it through that storm?”

From Marcelo: _He miss you a lot. Are you ok?_

“Um,” said Mischa, distracted, “We played a lot of Scrabble, read like five books each. We got through our own books pretty quickly, so we were stuck with whatever crappy beach reads former occupants of the house had left behind. Sorry, babe, Sash and Marcelo are texting me making sure I made it okay.”

“Mischa, you’re fine,” said Evgeniya gently. “What about Sascha, is he good? I’m assuming Marcelo got safely to Berlin for him?”

Mischa’s heartbeat skipped to hear Sascha’s name in her mouth.

“Yeah,” he said softly, even as he texted Marcelo back: _I’m not okay_ , because besides Sascha, Marcelo was the only one he could be honest with. He felt emo and depressive just typing out that sentence but it was true, he wasn’t doing well, and he didn’t know what to do about it. “He was doing well when I left. His heat will be a little later this year, but it shouldn’t affect him as long as he keeps up with his nutrition.” 

“Suppressants are lifesavers,” said Evgeniya, nodding, and Mischa looked out the window and grinned wryly: not in this case, they weren’t. He said, as he watched the three little bubbles that meant Marcelo was typing,

“Did you eat? Are you hungry?”

_Hang in there, champ. You go get drink, sleep lots. Be okay._

“No, and yes,” said Evgeniya. “Let’s go out. You can regale me with tales of your trip over sushi and sake.”

Normally, after such a long day of travel, Mischa would have wanted nothing more than to go home and relax; now, however, he wanted to stay away, wasn’t quite ready to be alone with his wife in their home. So with Marcelo’s advice fresh in his head he agreed, and by the time he was two glasses of sake in, describing in fabricated detail how Sascha had mockingly read aloud selected scenes from _Fifty Shades of Grey_ during one particular low point of the storm, he felt almost normal. Evgeniya was laughing and sweet as she always was and to his delight he realized that he had missed her. He was used to having her around and they were, if not soul mates, quite compatible; they had fun together, shared many common interests. If he had to marry someone, he was all right with it being her. 

He tried not to think about how fucked up that was, that he was just _all right_ with the person he’d chosen to spend his life with. Last week, Sascha had said to him that he’d thought Mischa didn’t seem as happy as he should have been on his wedding day; he had been right. As a younger man, Mischa had never been able to pinpoint how he’d imagined it might feel with his future spouse, but he did know that it was not the way he felt with Evgeniya. He’d known that for a long time, but he figured it was his burden to bear; Alex left him alone now, and he was able to do things like spend ten days in the Maldives with Sascha in peace. It was Sascha that Alex was jumping on now, for no evident reason, and Mischa wondered how much longer it would be before Olya popped up again.

The thought of her made him grind his teeth and he shoved the thought cloud away, frustrated. He couldn’t dwell on those things now.

After dinner he was exhausted and without meaning to he fell asleep in the car on the way back from the restaurant, dragged his things into the house and dropped them in the spare bedroom, collapsed on the bed without bothering to change his clothes. He would deal with everything in the morning. Right now all he wanted was rest.

Evgeniya was happy to let him. She’d seen the dark half-moons under his eyes; the storm had put him through it, and now it was time for him to rest without fear of the house collapsing around him in the middle of the night. After all, it was said, no man needs a vacation more than the man who has just had one.

*

BERLIN

“You have to eat, Sash,” said Marcelo gently, as they sat together in the kitchen over coffee the next morning. Sascha was dull-eyed and brooding, the verve that so defined him completely absent; he looked as though he’d barely slept.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You a walking cliche,” said Marcelo, rolling his eyes. “You mopey, you sad, you no sleep. You have to try, Sash. You don’t have choice but to try.”

Sascha looked up at him, indignant; Marcelo would not baby him, and he knew it was one of the reasons Mischa had so readily agreed to his coming to Berlin. Despite his big talk, Sascha responded well to tough love, and with the possible exception of Ivan, there was no one better to give it to him than Marcelo.

“I honestly don’t think I can eat. I feel like shit. I miss him so fucking much, it hasn’t gotten better.”

“Yeah, well, whose fault is that?” Marcelo’s eyes were shining, night sky with stars. “You take extra meds to island, you not have this problem right now. You stop complaining. We going to eat.”

Over the rim of his coffee mug Sascha glared at him; Marcelo absorbed it, staring calmly back. Finally Sascha sighed, set his cup down, mouth a little downturned arch.

“Well...where are we going?”

“What can you eat?”

“I don’t know.” Sascha was aware that he was pouting and hated himself for it but he’d been closer to tears than he could admit since Mischa had left and the slight whiskey hangover he was nursing didn’t help. “Maybe breakfast.”

“Okay,” said Marcelo, and his voice was kind. “Get dressed. We go get breakfast.”

Coffee cup still in hand, Sascha trudged slowly back to his room, shut the door behind him. He and Mischa had been texting as regularly as they could since Mischa had walked out of the door but it wasn’t enough; he needed touch and smell and the low soothing sound of his brother’s voice in his ear. He went to his bed, threw aside the top cover, produced the article of clothing lying there and buried his face in it. Unbeknownst to Mischa, Sascha had stolen one of his sleep shirts out of his bag, an old ragged Roland Garros shirt, the one that smelled like him the most. He’d slept curled around it the night before, breathing it, and he wasn’t sure if it hurt or helped but he wasn’t about to give it up.

With Mischa’s smell strong in his nostrils he threw on a clean outfit, grabbed his phone from the bedside table, thrilled to see Mischa’s name on his screen.

_Hey._

Sascha hated himself for how much his mood spiked in reaction.

_Hey, Meesh._

_Did you sleep? Have you been eating?_

_Have you been talking to Marcelo?_ Sascha rolled his eyes, but he was grinning; Mischa was still trying to Alpha him from miles away.

_Of course. He won’t just tell me what I want to hear._

_We’re going to eat now. Promise._

“Sascha,” yelled Marcelo from the living room, “quit texting Mischa and get out here. You need food, now.”

“Fuck off,” said Sascha, griping, but he yanked a hoodie over his head and stepped into his shoes and emerged into the hallway anyway. “I’m allowed to talk to him.”

“Look at me,” said Marcelo sternly, and Sascha did, regretted it. “Moon eyes. He checking up on you constantly.”

“We’re gonna have to stop,” said Sascha, as though he were announcing the death of a beloved pet. “Evgeniya is gonna question him if we’re talking all the time when I’m supposed to be in heat and out of commission.”

“You telling me,” said Marcelo, tossing Sascha’s keys at him, already halfway out the door. “Up to you guys. I cannot stop you.”

In the soft fluttery snow they walked down the street together, Mischa’s smell still hovering under Sascha’s nose, comfort blanket. There was an all-day breakfast place around the corner that was rarely busy during the weekdays; Sascha went there often enough to know when to stay away. Right now it was down time and he and Marcelo secured a back booth with no trouble. 

They both ordered more coffee; Sascha was aware that this was not the best decision on an empty stomach, but the caffeine high gave him something to focus on other than the low ache in his chest, and the combination of sugar and cream was at least some kind of caloric intake in case he couldn’t get any food down. He browsed the menu blindly, knowing already what he’d order - two eggs over hard, wheat toast plus butter, minus jelly - knowing further that he probably wouldn’t eat it. He wanted to hear Mischa’s voice, wanted to call him, didn’t know how he could without exacerbating things for both of them.

Over his own menu, Marcelo was watching this conundrum unfold across Sascha’s face, shrewd.

“You can’t just eat toast and eggs, Sash. Your body still need more than that. You playing catch up for days.”

Sascha looked up at him, surprised. “How did you know I was gonna order toast and eggs?”

Marcelo held up his phone, wry half-smile unfurling across his face. “You think Mischa has stopped hounding me for one second?”

In spite of himself Sascha flushed with pleasure; he looked away, trying to conceal his sudden glow, but Marcelo smacked his hand across the table. “Sascha. You gotta learn to hide that. Everyone can see lovesick from a mile away.”

Sascha nearly choked on his coffee. “I am not _lovesick - "  
_

“Uh huh. Moping around, you don’t wanna eat, big dark circles under your eyes?” Marcelo’s voice was firm, but soft. “Look, Sash, I not gonna lie to you, this is bad. He bite you once, maybe it’s okay. He bite you this many times...”

He trailed off, shook his head, muttered under his breath in quick Portuguese. Sascha didn’t need to be fluent to understand _fuck_ when he heard it.

“I know what you think,” he said, shaky. “But we aren’t bonded. I’m just fucked up because I’ve never been bitten during heat sex before, and Mischa is used to fucking a Beta. Besides, he’s married. Surely that means something.”

“It means nothing,” said Marcelo, softly. “Marriage means nothing next to a bond, Sash.”

“But we aren’t,” insisted Sascha, the weak quality to his tone indicating that he wasn’t certain of what he was saying at all. “We aren’t bonded. He’s my brother, Marcelo. That, like, probably can’t happen, right?”

Marcelo raised his hands, shrugged. “No one ever say to me that it can’t. You and Mischa not normal siblings, not ever. Who knows what can happen?”

*

MONTE CARLO

Mischa knew that he could not keep stalling intimacy with Evgeniya, but there were several significant problems standing in his way.

First problem: he was uninterested.

Evgeniya was an adorable girl, a very pretty woman, and there was no reason why Mischa should all of a sudden simply not be attracted to her. She had never caused him to be overwhelmed by lust, but he had never lacked interest; right now, however, he found himself with absolutely no carnal appetite for her. In retrospect this didn’t surprise him - he had known that Sascha would be the only one consuming his thoughts for the foreseeable future - but it still dismayed him. Evgeniya was his wife, and Beta or not, she was supposed to be the light of his life.

It was difficult for him to admit that she never had been.

Second problem: he was afraid.

As of now, it had not been confirmed that he and Sascha were bonded (and Mischa for his sanity chose to believe that they were not). If he tried unsuccessfully to have sex with Evgeniya, this seemed yet another indication that he and Sascha had formed a bond; furthermore, he had heard that Omegas whose bonded Alphas were physical with another person could feel the betrayal like actual pain. If this was true, even if he _was_ successful, he would be responsible for even more of Sascha’s woes, which didn’t feel like any sort of victory to him.

Third problem: he was _exhausted_.

It was mostly mental, but the need for sleep after four days of waking up at all hours of the day and night to satiate Sascha’s needs was still nagging at him. During Sascha’s heat he’d felt amazing, refreshed, but he knew this was likely because his Alpha hormones had taken over, providing him with the necessary stamina to ensure that his Omega was thoroughly cared for, for as long as necessary. The tiny part of him that was _not_ denying the bond produced an additional reason for his sudden rise in verve: heat sex between compatible Alphas and Omegas brought both participants to the forefront of health, especially in the presence of a bond. 

Mischa knew he was being deliberately obtuse. He didn’t care. He could not reconcile himself with the fact that he might be bonded with his _little brother_. His little brother, who trusted him with everything, who looked to him for guidance and wisdom and friendship, who had been Mischa’s person practically since he was _born_. Outside of the confines of their stupefying heat hormones, Mischa was mortified that he had given in, that he had violated every kind of boundary between them, even though he was aware of the extenuating circumstances. What was worse was the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about Sascha, that he was airless without him, that all he wanted was to hop the nearest plane and get to him as soon as possible and -

He tried to stop himself there. _And_ had never been a more loaded word.

On his first morning back in Monte Carlo he awoke late to an empty bed and a note informing him that Evgeniya had gone to yoga, instructing him to call if he got up in time to get lunch. Instead he texted Sascha, stopped himself from calling Sascha about four times, texted Marcelo to _check on_ Sascha, crawled out of bed after wallowing for nearly an hour and brewed a pot of coffee. His stomach felt strange; his skin, overly hot. When he examined himself in the bathroom mirror the depth of the gray smudges under his eyes shocked him; he looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and his color, so sun-copper just the previous evening, was low and pale. After fighting himself for about two minutes he picked up his phone and texted Marcelo about it because who else could he even begin to talk to about this?

 _Marcelo. I look like shit. Is this normal? Does Sash look okay?_

Marcelo replied almost instantly.

_He look like shit too. You guys need each other so soon after heat. Mischka..._

Mischa’s stomach flipped.

_God. What._

_I tell you not to bite him._

Mischa groaned out loud; it hadn’t even been 24 hours and already Marcelo knew. 

_I fucked up._

_You know how high chance of bond is now? One or two bites, you maybe get away with, but he is COVERED._

_I know._ Mischa’s heart was sprinting. _It’s beyond messed up, but I couldn’t stop._

_You don’t listen. Either of you. Must be family thing._

From Sascha: _I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell him. He just knew._

Mischa felt ill, but not because Marcelo knew about what he had done; he had expected that Marcelo would find out from the beginning. He felt ill because Sascha was upset, and he knew this like he knew his own name. Innately.

_Sash, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. Stop feeling guilty. I know you do._

Pause. Then,

_You feel bad, too. I can tell._

Mischa sat down on the wide edge of the bathroom sink, gripped it white-knuckled, pulse so high it felt dangerous. To Marcelo he said,

_Make sure he eats. Please._

_Do my best. Sash is stubborn. I think he get it from you._

Mischa forced himself to eat a bagel - sans cream cheese, he couldn’t handle the strong flavor - and took a preposterously long shower, music blasted to an earshattering level so he could deafen the maddening loop of thought inside his mind. When he got out he threw on gym shorts and called his wife; she had gone to lunch with several of her yoga friends and promised to meet him shortly. The thought of her homecoming made Mischa’s stomach churn.

Marcelo’s post-breakfast report was not encouraging: Sascha had managed to eat one egg and half of a piece of toast. Mischa gritted his teeth and cracked the knuckles of his left hand and then he dove belly-first onto his unkempt bed and called his brother.

Sascha picked up on the first ring and his voice was overflowing.

“ _Mischa_. Hey.”

“Sascha,” said Mischa gently, “you have to eat. Please.”

“I did eat,” said Sascha defensively, and in the background Marcelo gave a clear derisive snort. “Shut the fuck up, Marcelo.”

Mischa smiled in spite of himself. “An egg and a few bites of toast doesn’t count and you know it.”

“Traitor,” said Sascha to Marcelo. To Mischa he said, “I can’t, Meesh. I’m not hungry at all. I tried, but it was - not good.”

“I know you don’t want to,” said Mischa, still in that soft tone, “but you need to. You know as well as I do that you’re still in catchup mode. You’ll starve like this.”

“What about you? Is it easy for you to eat?” Sascha’s voice was demanding, and Mischa heard the hollow in it, winced, made his decision.

“No,” he said, and the honesty felt right; there was no need to try to convince Sascha that he was fine when he obviously already knew the truth. “I couldn’t even put cream cheese on my bagel. I could barely eat it by itself.”

“Yeah.” Sascha sounded wrecked. “I feel like I haven’t seen you for days.”

“I feel like that too.” Mischa pushed his head sideways into his pillow, exhaled. “I miss you.”

Pause. Then Sascha said in a rush, “I miss you so much.”

In the background, Marcelo: “you two disgust me,” but Sascha laughed and even from a distance Mischa could tell from his tone that he was joking.

“We don’t deserve him,” he said to Sascha, and he meant it.

“You’re telling me.” Sascha sighed. “Do you think you could, like, FaceTime me when I try to eat again? It might help.”

Mischa understood, he felt noticeably better even after five minutes of talking to Sascha - _because you’re BONDED, because you NEED HIM_ , his mind screamed, but he pushed it away. “Yes,” he said out loud. “Yes, just tell me when, Sash, and I’ll do whatever you need.”

There was a slight scuffling; then Marcelo’s voice was clear in Mischa’s ear. “Now. This child skinny as rail. He need food.” Then he paused, and when he spoke again his words were cautious. “Mischa...is Evi there?”

“No,” said Mischa, heavily. “she’s out at lunch. Why?”

“Maybe don’t call when she’s with you,” said Marcelo. “At least not for few days. Give it time to settle. Sascha sound like he reading love poetry when he talk to you, I know you the same, and she’ll hear it. Okay?" 

Mischa knew he was right. “I know. I just don’t - I can’t be normal right now.”

“I know. Do your best. It take time, but get better. Ok?”

“Okay.” Mischa heard his phone beep; he looked at the screen and found a text from Evgeniya, announcing that she was on her way home. “Marcelo, she’s coming back, she just messaged me. Can I say bye to Sash?”

Marcelo sighed, knowing this codependency should be curtailed at every opportunity, but he couldn’t in good conscience allow two of his favorite people to experience any more pain than they clearly already had. “Yes. Hang in there, Mischka.”

Mischa smiled for his Americanism, made a mental note to send Marcelo a few six packs of his favorite rare beer as a thank-you gift. He knew they’d never be able to repay Marcelo his loyalty, but Golden Monkey went a long way with him and he knew the Brazilian would be pleased.

“I will, Marcelo. We owe you. So much.”

Marcelo snorted. “Yep. You do. Here’s Sash.” 

When Sascha’s voice hit Mischa’s eardrum it warmed his stomach immediately, smooth as butter, low hum like an automobile on the highway. “Hey. He just kind of took the phone from me.”

“It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” Mischa worried at his lower lip. “Listen. He’s right about Evi. She’s gonna know something’s up as soon as she hears my voice if I’m on the phone with you in front of her right now. But if you need to talk to me, like, really talk to me, just send me the Distress Signal and I’ll go somewhere that I can FaceTime you. Okay?”

Sascha snorted. “Oh my god, the Distress Signal.”

The Distress Signal was something they’d been using since Sascha was six or seven years old, and it was pretty much exactly what it sounded like: an SOS. When either of them were in a situation from which they needed immediate rescue, they would start reminiscing to the other about the time they had gone whale-watching in Alaska. At age two, Sascha had been given a stuffed killer whale that Irina had christened "Kasatka", the generic Russian word for _orca_. Alex and Mischa had both scoffed - there was no way Sascha would be able to pronounce the name of his toy until he was much older - but Sascha had fallen madly for the little thing, toting it around with him wherever he went, sleeping with it with his little chubby arm tucked under the dorsal fin, creating elaborate baby-talk stories involving himself and Kasatka and God knew what. When he was quite small he and Mischa had shared a tennis bag and Mischa was always happy to stow Kasatka in the side pocket; whenever Sascha inevitably got bored watching Mischa practice, he would take out the whale and run around the court chirruping happily while Irina chased him laughing. For Sascha’s sixth birthday, the family had made a trip to Alaska to go whale watching, and Mischa had never seen Sascha so happy, bundled up in his little anorak with his face chapped red from wind and cold and excitement. He was obsessed, and even as he’d grown older, he had kept Kasatka with him on his many travels as a good luck charm. Mischa was pretty sure she was still sitting on the top shelf of Sascha’s closet in Monte Carlo, a fact for which he loved to give Sascha shit.

“It’s evolved,” said Mischa now, grinning. “These days you can just send me an emoji, instead of rhapsodizing about Sea World.” 

“Fuck Sea World.” Sascha was a big advocate of keeping wildlife in the wild, probably because he had seen _Blackfish_ at an impressionable age, and Mischa couldn’t blame him. “But you asked for it. Be prepared to get spammed with adorable marine life.”

“Hug Kasatka when you get back to Monte Carlo. She’ll help,” said Mischa, and Sascha groaned.

“Fuck you.”

“Anytime.” The response was a reflex and Mischa knew he should not have said it but by now he was just adding to his list: the things that he was not supposed to do that he kept doing. It was getting extensive.

“Rawr.” Sascha’s voice was teeming with a hundred unsaid things. “Okay. Is _your wife_ coming home? Do I need to hang up?”

“Sash.”

“Sorry.” The venom in his voice ebbed. “Can’t help it.”

“I know.” Mischa wasn’t mad at him, not at all; there was still a thread of jealousy regarding Marcelo spooling through him, and it flared when he least expected it. “I’ll text you. Please try to eat.”

“No promises,” said Sascha, “but I’ll do my best. I love you.”

“I love you,” said Mischa, and his chest was warm, warm, warm but when they hung up it hurt him everywhere.

Evgeniya was back within the hour; she flew in with her eyes shiny from exercise and caffeine and food, stood with him in the kitchen while he drank another cup of coffee. Mischa tried to remember what they’d done for fun before he’d left for the Maldives - play games, watch movies, go for walks - but nothing sounded right when he thought of suggesting it. His rendezvous with Sascha had initiated a subtle shift in their relationship and he felt as though he were shooting the shit with a good friend instead of reacquainting himself with his romantic companion.

 _Because she’s not your romantic companion anymore_ , his deviant mind screamed, and he wanted to die.

*

BERLIN

In the cool muted grey of late afternoon Sascha was reclining on the couch with Marcelo, wrapped in a swathe of blankets and thick winter clothing, when he gave a harsh inhalation and folded over himself. Marcelo sat up immediately and put a hand on his back and his voice when he spoke was on fire. 

“Sascha?”

Sascha groaned out loud; he could not breathe for the sudden clawing, wrenching agony in the pit of his stomach. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Marcelo was up in a second. Sascha barely saw him move before he was back kneeling in front of him with a trashcan, and just in time. Sascha dropped his head into the bin and threw up everything he had managed to ingest that day. 

Slashed through with worry, Marcelo watched his face, so pale with those slight green undertones. Sascha’s glasses had fallen slightly askew and he reached up to yank them off before he leaned down to heave again, this time producing only the barest of results. How little he had managed to eat since Mischa had left was more apparent than ever when they were faced with the raw contents of his stomach. When he looked up his teeth were chattering and his eyes were streaked with crimson.

“I feel,” he said cautiously, “ _wrong_.”

Quickly Marcelo calculated the options. Everything that Sascha had managed to eat since Marcelo had made it to Berlin, they had eaten together; if Sascha was sick, logically, Marcelo should be too. He supposed it was possible that this was a 24-hour bug and the symptoms would manifest in his own body shortly, but logically he understood that this was likely not the case. He tipped Sascha’s chin up and stared hard at the bitemark-bruises strewn like a map across his throat and set his mouth in a bleak line.

“Wrong like how?”

“Like,” said Sascha raggedly with his eyes downturned, “I ate something bad, but also like I do when I lose a match? Just like – disappointed, and kind of heartbroken.”

At the word, Marcelo’s blood froze. He looked unblinking into Sascha’s eyes, fervent.

“Heartbroken?”

Sascha looked up and when he saw Marcelo’s expression fear roared like a dust storm across his lovely ashen face. “Yeah. Is that bad?”

“You think about what happen over past week and tell me,” said Marcelo grimly.

Sascha’s face went, somehow, even whiter. Marcelo watched the regression of color and bit his lower lip; the urgency in his eyes didn’t change.

“But,” said Sascha, struggling; he swallowed, made a face for the acidic taste. “Why is it so bad now? Why wouldn’t this have happened as soon as he left?”

Marcelo shook his dark head; he suspected that he already knew, but he wasn’t going to say a word until he had legitimate confirmation. “Don’t know. You stay here. I go get you some water.”

As he wandered into the kitchen he withdrew his phone from his pocket, shot a quick text to Mischa:

_How’s it going?_

He went to the refrigerator, filled a massive glass of water, and returned to the living room to hand it to Sascha. He had managed to get half of it down without an issue before Mischa responded; Marcelo was so used to Mischa being on top of him every moment that he was awake that the delay was strange, but it only confirmed his earlier suspicions.

_It’s going. What’s up?_

Marcelo didn’t even know where to begin. _Same old, same old. Sash not eating, have to force him to drink. But he just get worse, like ten minutes ago._

He looked up to make sure Sascha was still drinking; he was, but his progress was slow, slow, slow. A vein pulsed blue at his temple and Marcelo thought he’d never seen Sascha look so rough.

Mischa’s next text was not reassuring.

_Oh, fuck._

Marcelo’s mouth drained and he tried to keep his face still so Sascha wouldn’t question him, but he was finishing the last of his water and his eyes were closed. _What you do?_

_Had sex with Evi. Almost unsuccessfully._

_Almost?_

_She’s not exactly doing anything for me at the moment, if you know what I mean._

Marcelo fought the urge to snicker. _God. So what you do? She notice anything?_

_Uh, no. I just thought about_

Pause.

_You know_

Second pause.

 _Last week, and powered through_.

At this, Marcelo could not stop himself; he laughed out loud because everything was insane and this was so, so fucked and there was nothing any of them could do about it because they were already twenty thousand leagues under the sea and there was no surface in sight. Sascha glanced at him, narrowed his eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re _laughing_ during my hour of need.”

“Look,” said Marcelo, trying and failing to wipe the grin off his face, “We all have coping mechanisms, yes? There is lot of emotion in air right now, here _and_ Monte Carlo. Laugh is good for you.”

Sascha rolled his eyes, but he was grinning a bit. “I’ve never felt less like laughing, thanks.”

“Yeah, but you smiling,” said Marcelo cheekily.

“You’re contagious.” Sascha shook his head, placed his empty water glass upon the coffee table. “What’s so funny, anyway?”

“Honestly, nothing,” said Marcelo in all truth, debating how much of the conversation with Mischa he should be sharing. “Your brother tell me he _trying_ , and it not going so well.”

Sascha’s face went dark as a thundercloud. “What the fuck does _trying_ mean?”

Marcelo shrugged. “Open for interpretation. Don’t look at me like that, Sascha. He is _married_. He have a _wife_.”

“You said marriage didn’t matter in the face of a bond,” blurted Sascha, and they both froze. Then Marcelo said carefully, 

“Who say you’re bonded?” 

“Well, let’s see,” said Sascha, caustic. “He leaves, I feel like I’m dying, I suddenly feel like I have the worst flu in the world, and ten minutes later you text my brother and tell me he’s _trying_. Obviously that means he’s fucking his wife. I think we can draw general conclusions from this.”

Marcelo bared his lower teeth, the universal look for _we’re fucked_. “It not good, that for sure. Big mess.”

“As you keep saying,” said Sascha miserably, pushing a sweat-damp sheaf of hair back from his forehead. “Listen, I know. I know it’s his wife. I know I should not feel like this.”

“Like how?” 

“Like I want to stab her eyes out,” said Sascha, moody pout curling his lips down, and Marcelo grinned from pure shock. Sascha caught his look and punched him in the arm. “You’re smiling way too much for the gravity of this situation.”

“Sorry. I know.” Marcelo couldn’t stop. “Look. The only way to know for sure if you bonded is from doctor. They take bloodwork, ask for symptoms, you know drill. The thing is…”

“What?”

“Doctor not really needed,” said Marcelo softly. “Usually, you can just…you know…tell.”

“And what does it seem like to you?”

“Uh.”

“ _Marcelo_.”

“Okay, okay.” Marcelo pulled an uncomfortable face. “Um, to be honest, Sash, if you getting sick when he’s doing stuff with other person, that is a huge sign of bond. And when I see you yesterday I take one look at those bitemarks and think there is greater than ninety percent chance. But I not say because I not want to scare you.” 

“I’m already scared,” muttered Sascha, and the tough bitter exterior that he tossed up when he was terrified, or upset, or wounded, cracked.

“I know,” said Marcelo. “Mischa is, too.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Did he tell _you_ that?”

“No,” admitted Sascha, “but I know he is. He feels so responsible for everything that happens to me, ever. I told him – I told him he had my permission. It’s so fucked, Marcelo, but I’ve always known that if he wasn’t my brother I’d have chosen him for my Alpha as soon as I came of age. There’s no one that – smells like him, or acts like him, or is what he _is_ to me.”

Marcelo was observing him sadly. “I know. I can tell that from everything you tell me since we know each other. It’s same for him, I think.” He cocked his head. “And then you go and forget your suppressants alone on island with him. Convenient.”

Hot shame forced Sascha’s eyes down. “I didn’t forget,” he muttered. “You reminded me enough times that I couldn’t use that excuse even if I wanted to.”

“I know,” said Marcelo, and he had the good grace not to sound smug. “I don’t think you admit to yourself why you not take extra, but I also think you kind of know, in back of your head.”

“Stop calling me out like this,” said Sascha, but his eyes were soft and Marcelo reached over and squeezed his shoulder.

“I don’t think you do it on purpose, not really. I think your conscience not let you. But if you want him all these years – you don’t just not think about it. What might happen. You know?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, “I did think about it, for like two seconds, when I let myself. You know he told me Mum and Dad put a shit ton of pressure on him with Evi? And I got so sick at his wedding.”

“Uh huh.” Marcelo tilted his crowfeather head. “That was first time I make big connection.”

“Yeah.” Sascha exhaled, hard. “I’m so fucked up. I can’t believe he’s sleeping with her.”

“Don’t think it is easy for him,” said Marcelo sharply. “Don’t think it is easy for him at all.”

“Did he say it wasn’t?”

“Yeah.” Marcelo sighed. “So much _bosta_. You need talk to him, but I feel like I need tell you _not_ talk to him.” 

“I feel the same,” said Sascha. “But I can’t just not talk to him, Marcelo. He’s my – well – he’s my person.”

Marcelo looked down at the phone in his lap; Mischa had texted him five times, increasingly intense versions of _what’s going on, what do you mean he’s worse_. He opened the thread and replied.

_He feel pretty bad right now. Pretty sick._

Mischa’s response was instantaneous.

_It’s because I fucked her, isn’t it._

_Think so._

_Shit. Does he know?  
_

_Not explicitly._

Sascha was trying so hard not to be curious but he needed everything to do with Mischa and he needed it immediately and eventually he gave in; he was not strong. “What is he saying?”

“Right now? Lot of cuss words,” said Marcelo cheerfully, and right then Sascha loved him for his enduring optimism. “I not tell him you know what he do. You guys talk about that later. We going for a walk, and you eating banana on the way. Get up. You need head clear.”

So Sascha, not knowing what else to do, rose to his feet, threw on a beanie and jacket and snow boots, accepted the banana Marcelo pushed into his hand before he followed him out into the freezing air. The sharp sting of wind was like a clout to the face, but it was one he needed. He could no longer sit on his couch and dwell. 

He left his phone on the charger. He didn’t need Mischa in his head right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get wrecked, ALL of us. This hurt so bad to write but it's just necessary because what is happiness without a little (okay, a lot) of angst first? I love each and every one of you for reading, your comments give me LIFE!!


	11. Chapter 11

MONTE CARLO

Of one thing Mischa was sure: the day had been a catastrophe.

Sascha wasn’t eating, was barely drinking, hadn’t slept. Evgeniya had pulled him into the bedroom and he hadn’t been able to think of a reason to say no and the only way he’d been able to get hard was flooding his own brain with memories from last week, Sascha groaning with unfettered bliss as he slid inside of him for the first time, Sascha’s rich musky smell as Mischa buried his face in the cleft of his ass, the way he’d ridden him like an absolute _champion_. If he could close his eyes and pretend like that was his reality he was pretty sure he’d be able to get off under most circumstances, and if he had to do that to successfully fuck his wife and pretend that everything was normal, he would.

But nothing was normal. Afterward a dull ache had bloomed inside of his chest, right over his heart, and he had irrationally panicked and Googled _heart attack symptoms_ until Marcelo had texted him and told him that Sascha had taken a turn for the worse almost immediately after Mischa had slept with his wife.

Now Sascha wasn’t answering any of Mischa’s text messages, and he was _spiraling_. Sascha was angry, and he had every right to be. It was fucking Mischa up beyond explanation that he’d had such a negative reaction: if Mischa was sleeping with Evgeniya and Sascha could feel it over such a distance, it was almost undeniable that they were bonded. As Mischa had suspected, Alphas cheating on their Omegas caused them physical pain, and he wasn’t sure how bad Sascha’s condition had been, but the fact that he had had a reaction at all was enough to raise multiple glaring red flags. If there were no underlying consequences to what they had done, Sascha shouldn’t have been able to sense _anything_ that Mischa was doing; he shouldn’t have needed Marcelo to stay and tend to him because he was fragile after a heat.

For the thousandth time, Mischa thought _this is not normal_.

He was sitting on his balcony with a cup of tea and a book that he barely managed to crack when Evgeniya came out to sit with him, a mug of her own tea in hand, smiling.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, and smiled back at her. “Too nice not to be out here.”

“Even compared to the Maldives?” She perched on the chair next to him, kicked her legs out on the railing before them.

“Even compared to the Maldives.”

“Let me see your vacation pictures,” said Evgeniya, so obediently Mischa held out his phone to her; Marcelo was awaiting a reply from him and Sascha was AWOL and anyway there was no chance she’d see anything she shouldn’t because they trusted each other: never went snooping on each other’s phones, never questioned the other’s loyalty. Mischa felt guilt slice all the way to his core: Evgeniya had never done a thing to deserve this. She was a wonderful human who deserved worlds and worlds of love and he was a monster to have chosen her when he wasn’t all the way in. Because if he was honest with himself he had never been, not really, there was always something holding him back. At first he’d thought that she as a Beta could not fulfill the natural inclination that all Alphas had to bond with Omegas; now he wholly understood for the first time in his life that his number one problem had always been Sascha.

He observed Evgeniya’s face as she scrolled; occasionally she would murmur or exclaim over one photo or the other, but when she held his screen out for him to look his heart stopped at what she was showing him.

It was an image of himself and Sascha on the beach. On what had been supposed to be their second to last day before the storm had swooped in, Sascha had asked a wandering local to take their picture, and that quick snapshot had turned into a candid little shoot. Mischa had splashed Sascha with surf and Sascha had retaliated and they had chased each other, laughing; eventually Mischa had tackled Sascha to the ground and they’d ended up sprawled laughing next to each other. This was the moment that Evgeniya was showing him: both of them crashed out in the sand, Sascha with his head thrown back, smile taking up his entire face, Mischa watching him laughing. They looked so carefree Mischa’s stomach ached.

“You guys are so cute,” said Evgeniya, beaming. “You’re so happy. It’s nice that you have this kind of relationship with him.”

Mischa smiled over the colossal lump that had shaped in his throat. “He’s pretty great, Ev.”

“Yeah, he is.” Evgeniya took one last look at the photo before she continued scrolling. “When will he be back from Berlin? Few days, right?"

“Yeah, should be,” said Mischa. His voice was as casual as he could make it, but he knew exactly what date Sascha planned to arrive in Monte Carlo.

“And your parents are coming that day too?”

“They are.” Mischa knew what she was going to ask and anxiety like sludge pooled in his stomach.

“Will we see them that night, or the next day?”

“I don’t think they have their flight set,” said Mischa, “but I know Dad likes evening flights, so I would imagine they’d be getting here pretty late. I’ll talk to them in the next day or so and let you know.”

“Okay.” Evgeniya smiled. “Do you think your dad will try to get that girl to come hang out? Olga, or whatever her name is?”

Mischa grimaced; he had complained to Evgeniya about Olya several times, how Sascha had clearly stated his disinterest, but Alex wouldn’t let it go. “Olya? God, I hope not. He’s always scheming, though, so I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s so desperate to get Sascha to stop with Marcelo.”

Evgeniya chuckled gently, shook her head, took a sip of tea. “I don’t understand him. I would think he would be happy that Sascha wasn’t sleeping around. He seems like he’s being very mature and cautious about the process of finding a bond mate.”

“Well, he recognizes when someone just wants him for his fame, and he’s spot on about her,” said Mischa, tartness sour as lemon in his voice. “Dad doesn’t seem to get that.”

“He’s totally blind about some things,” said Evgeniya, nodding. “Oh well. If she shows up Sascha can handle it. He should just start talking about how Marcelo gets him through his heats. That would shut her up.”

“The only problem with that idea is she’ll go to press and tell them everything,” said Mischa. “Then he’d be royally fucked. Sascha hates people knowing about his private stuff.”

“Does he care that I know?”

 _Yes_. “I don’t think so. He’s pretty chill with family and friends.” Mischa stretched, stood up. “I’m gonna get more tea. Want some?”

“I’m good.” Evgeniya held up her still-full mug. “Come right back.”

Mischa promised her that he would. As he walked out of the room he checked his phone, texted Marcelo for an update. There was still nothing from Sascha, which felt strange and hollow and incorrect. He didn’t think he had ever gone so long without some kind of contact with his brother when neither of them had anything going on; they were in constant communication. Sascha must really be furious, or hurting, or both to stonewall him like this.

He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t stop sleeping with his wife or she would immediately question what was wrong, but he couldn’t knowingly continue to cause Sascha physical pain. Marcelo hadn’t gone into detail, instead choosing to suggest that they talk about it on their own, but Mischa needed to hear what was going on from him, an unbiased outside source. Sascha would try to be strong for Mischa as long as he could be, but to really understand what to do Mischa needed to know the truth. It was the only way they would ever be able to proceed.

He texted Sascha a few more times throughout the day, but when he hadn’t heard from him by midnight, he vowed to back off, let Sascha come to him when he felt that he could. Marcelo assured him that he was taking good care of him but Mischa couldn’t throw off his doubt: their friend was doing his best, but he could not provide what Sascha needed.

Only Mischa could do that.

*

The next day was a blur. In the early hours of the morning Evgeniya rolled on top of Mischa before he even knew what was happening; he’d woken hard as iron from a dream in which Sascha had been on his knees before him, smirking with his mouth around the crown of Mischa’s cock, and there was nothing for it but to close his eyes and let her ride until they were both spent. The entire time Mischa thought of Sascha’s hands, the way he felt from the inside, the taste of his bruises as Mischa licked them clean, and he came so hard he nearly went blind from it.

It only took a moment or two after comedown for the ache in his chest to return, but when it did, it was full force. Evgeniya fell easily back to sleep, but he slipped out of bed, went to go stand on the balcony in the hoodie that Sascha had worn so many times in the Maldives. Shivering in the slight chill, he called Marcelo, who like the saint he was picked up on the third ring.

“Early, Meesh.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Eh. I was up anyway. Sash is sick again. I going to get him medicine from store.”

Mischa’s heart, so constricted already, plunged. “Yeah, I don’t feel amazing either.”

Marcelo lowered his voice. “You have sex again?”

“Yeah, after I woke up with a massive hard-on dreaming about last week,” said Mischa, hating himself. “Sorry, but like, I have to talk to someone about this. She woke up and felt it and I guess green means go?"

Marcelo laughed so hard he snorted. “You are impossible, you know? I have Sascha who seems like he has plague, and then you talking to me about _this_. _Noss_.”

“I know. This is a fucking nightmare. And he won’t talk to me.”

“He want to,” said Marcelo softly. “I think he’s fighting it. Think maybe he thinks you don’t care cause you’re having sex, which I tell him is ridiculous.”

Mischa almost cried. “How could he think that? I literally _can’t fuck her_ unless I think about him.”

“Right, and under normal circumstance I say tell him that,” said Marcelo. Mischa could hear the wind lashing across the connection, reminiscent of the storm they’d so recently endured. “But…he’s your brother.”

“I know,” said Mischa in complete misery, “but I have to talk to him. This can’t go on, I need to know he’s okay.”

“He’s not,” said Marcelo, and then he said something that made Mischa’s blood go cold, “but are you?”

*

BERLIN

Sascha made it through two and a half days – two and a half immeasurable, agonizing, more or less sleepless days – without contacting Mischa at all. Marcelo wasn’t telling him much of what Mischa was saying, other than the fact that he was endlessly concerned and wanted Sascha to talk to him, but Sascha couldn’t stop imagining him with Evgeniya, and the idea made him bitter, poison leeching from the inside out. Anxious, vicious thoughts accosted him: _what if he doesn’t care, what if he doesn’t need you. How can you feel like this, he’s your brother, you’re disgusting. Of course he has to go back to his wife, and you have to get over yourself, because nowhere in any universe would it ever work out that you can be with him._

But,

 _Yours_ , Sascha had crooned, and Mischa had chanted back to him, _mine_.

At one AM on the second day of going incommunicado, when Sascha was once again lying insomnia-awake in his bed, tracing his ribs where they pushed hard against his skin, he finally understood that this could not carry on. He was angry, and injured, and Mischa needed to know. He couldn’t keep shutting him out because he was petrified to hear the truth. He reached for his phone, pulled up their text thread; it was long as novel, he’d never deleted a thing.

_Are you up?_

In two seconds Mischa replied.

_Yes. Call me._

So Sascha sat up in bed and switched on his lamp and sat back against his pillow, bracing himself for whatever might come next. Everything felt like walking a minefield; he didn’t know what he was allowed to say or think or _feel_ , but all bets were off. Mischa was the source of his troubles, and Irina had always taught him that problem solving started with the root of things. So be it. To the root of his issue he would go.

As soon as Mischa picked up the phone Sascha lost it.

“I know you’re sleeping with her,” he ground out, “because I can _feel it_.”

Mischa felt his stomach swoop unpleasantly; he darted out of his room, careful not to wake Evgeniya, and stole down the stairs to his basement so they could have a proper conversation.

“Sash, I,” he said, but lost his voice halfway through, had to start again. He’d been aware, of course he’d been aware, but hearing verbal confirmation from the actual source knocked him to his knees. “I can’t believe you can tell something like that.”

“Well, yeah, it’s kind of hard to miss,” said Sascha sarcastically, “when my heart feels like it’s going to literally tear itself apart from the inside out and I puke my fucking guts up and fifteen minutes later you tell Marcelo that you’re _trying_ with her _._ I know what _trying_ means, Meesh. I’m not a dumbass.”

Mischa flinched. From the dull impending-heart-attack pain that had settled behind his breastbone both times he had managed to be intimate with Evgeniya, and the conversations he’d had with Marcelo, he had surmised that Sascha had been greatly affected by what was happening, but he hadn’t thought for a second that it would be much different for him than it was for Mischa because he didn’t know how these things worked, didn’t know what was normal, what to expect. Marcelo had said _he’s sick;_ said, _he feels pretty_ bad. Mischa hadn’t known exactly how bad it was because no one had told him. Before they’d parted ways, he hadn’t talked to Sascha about anything like this, because he hadn’t known that he would have to; hadn’t know they would both need that conversation like air.

“It’s that bad for you?”

“Yeah, it’s that bad,” said Sascha. “It’s fucking worse. It feels like someone died, and then I got food poisoning at their funeral from eating old potato salad. I can’t sleep, I’m barely eating. I’ve been trying to get over myself but I fucking can’t, Meesh. It’s not going away.”

“It’s not for me either,” whispered Mischa. By now he’d settled onto his basement couch in the dark and he was wrecking the cuticle of his left thumbnail and when he felt sudden warm wetness start to gush he winced; he’d made himself bleed. He couldn’t feel it.

“But you keep sleeping with your wife,” said Sascha, slow toxic darts on his tongue, “like it’s nothing.”

“It is not _nothing_ , Sascha,” said Mischa sharply. “Not at all. I’m not doing it because I _want to_. My sex drive has been negative, and then when I do finally manage to fuck her it feels like I’m having a heart attack.”

“How are you even doing it then?” The hurt in Sascha’s voice was deep as a war trench and just as dark and it made him _venomous_. “Viagra?”

“No, Sash,” said Mischa, calm, because he had seen the worst of Sascha’s personality and he was the only one who could counteract him successfully when things went south. “I’ve had to think about - other things.”

“ _Other things_?”

“Last week.”

Sascha hadn’t expected it; Mischa felt his pause like a looming cliff edge, stark.

“Last week?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Like, us?”

“Yeah, like us.”

The furious tension stringing across the connection eased; when Sascha spoke again his voice was subdued.

“Does it work?”

“Uh.” Mischa felt shame like relentless heat blooming in his stomach. “Yeah. It does.”

“What do you think about?”

“Um,” said Mischa again, and swallowed. “How wet you were, how easy it was for me to put it in you. Hearing you say my name and moan for me. Your smell. The smell of your room after I fucked you. Honestly, Sash, all of it.”

Sascha was instantly, painfully hard. He curled his hoodie strings around his fingers and flushed to the roots of his sun-blonde hair.

“Jesus, Meesh.”

“Yeah. After I think of that, it’s,” said Mischa resignedly, “not hard. It’s good enough that I can kind of - not forget the pain, exactly - but put it on hold.”

He reclined back on the couch, listened to Sascha breathe while he processed. He knew he should be denying reality but he could not. Sascha was desolate and it was entirely his fault and he would not let him suffer in solitude when he himself was in just as much pain.

Sascha was silent for a good moment. Mischa was about to ask him if he was all right when he spoke again.

“So you don’t want to fuck her.”

In spite of everything Mischa grinned. “That’s what you got out of all of that?”

“Not all,” said Sascha, and Mischa was gratified to hear amusement in his voice. “But it’s the most important thing.”

Mischa closed his eyes. “Have you told Marcelo what’s been happening to you?”

“Yeah. He was sitting right next to me the first time, and even if he hadn’t been he would have found out. He’s up my ass.”

“He’s worried about you, Sash. I asked him to take care of you for me, and he is. I’d be up your ass, too.”

“Yeah, but I’d like it,” said Sascha, and Mischa snorted.

“You’re the worst.”

“Yeah, well, look who’s talking,” said Sascha, but he was smirking. “Anyway, yeah. He knows. He just keeps saying we’re a big mess and it’s not good.”

“He’s not wrong,” said Mischa. He sucked dried blood from his thumb, sighed. “Has he told you what I’ve been saying?”

“A little. Just that you’re concerned and you want to talk.” Sascha sighed. “I couldn’t. I was afraid that you – didn’t care.”

“Sascha, are you kidding?” Mischa’s voice was _ferocious_. “I’d be on the next fucking plane to you if I could get away with it. I need to take care of you, and you need to be taken care of. I am losing my fucking mind here. The only reason I even _had_ sex with her the second time was because I woke up with a hard-on thinking about you sucking me off, and she felt it and took that as her cue.”

Sascha was shocked and pleased in equal parts. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.” Mischa felt his face collecting blush blood; even in the dark stillness of his solitude, he was embarrassed. “I’m telling you. I’m not over it, either. Not even close.”

“Oh.” Sascha’s voice was small. “Um. Okay. I guess I should have just talked to you.”

“It’s okay,” said Mischa, “I understand why you didn’t, I’d have been pissed, too. When was the last time you ate?"

“Uh.” Sascha checked his watch; it was half past one in the morning and he was so awake he felt like he’d taken uppers. “I tried to eat dinner at like eight.”

“Tried to?”

“Yeah. I managed a few bites of a burger and like six fries. Better than lunch, though.” Sascha bit his lower lip. “Threw that all up.”

Mischa grimaced. “Can you eat now if I stay on the phone with you?”

“I don’t know,” said Sascha truthfully. “I’m not really hungry, but I can try.”

“And you don’t think you’re just sick?” Mischa already knew the answer. “Like maybe you picked something up on the plane?”

Sascha laughed, caustic. “What do you think, Meesh? Honestly, what do you think? You fuck your wife and both times I immediately get sick? You always said you didn’t believe in coincidence.”

“I don’t,” said Mischa. His body felt heavy, as though there were stones pinning down his limbs, his torso. “I know you aren’t sick, I know. I should be there, and I’m not, and to make it worse I’m with someone who isn’t you.”

“Exactly,” said Sascha. “But honestly, Mischa. I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“Me neither.” Mischa pushed his toes hard into the couch cushions, grounding himself. “I feel like shit, too, Sash. Nothing feels right.”

“Yeah.” Sascha swallowed. “I leave for Monte Carlo in _a day_. Mum is going to know something’s up the instant she sees me.”

“Which is why you need to eat,” said Mischa firmly. “Hang up, I’m gonna FaceTime you. Then I want you to go to the kitchen and try to eat something.”

“Mischa...”

“Please, Sash. You have to try,” said Mischa firmly. “And I...really want to look at you. I wanna see your face.”

Sascha felt his heart stop. “I want that too,” he said softly. “Okay. Hang on.”

He disconnected; in less than five seconds Mischa was requesting to FaceTime. He pushed his glasses further up on his nose and accepted.

“Hey,” he said, as Mischa’s face came into focus on the screen. “It’s dark there.”

“Yeah, I’m in the basement,” said Mischa. “Hang on, I’ll turn the lamp on.”

He twisted around to reach the desk lamp behind him; when it flickered into illumination he flopped back and squinted at the screen.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, and instinctively he reached to trace Mischa’s face. “Hi. Jesus.”

“Hi,” said Mischa gently. It was the first time they had seen each other’s faces since he had gone back to Monte Carlo. “You look exhausted, Sascha.”

“Yeah, well.” Sascha sniffed. “You don’t look much better.”

“I know. I’m not,” said Mischa, and he shrugged. “Those dark circles look heroin chic as fuck, though.”

Sascha laughed. “I mean, the people at Zegna told me if I ever failed as a tennis player I could just model.”

“You could,” said Mischa frankly. He assessed his brother carefully, Sascha’s eyes overbright against the kohl smudges of his undereye circles, the pronounced bone structure of his face, his bare clavicle stark against his skin. “You’re still beautiful, Sash.”

Sascha flushed and his fingers went automatically to the thick gold chain around his neck, the one that had once been Mischa’s. “You are. It’s so fucking good to see your face.”

“Yours too,” said Mischa heavily. “I miss you every minute.”

Sascha said, “How am I supposed to get over you if you tell me stuff like that?”

But he was smiling and Mischa knew he had said the right thing. Everything already hurt enough; lying would make it worse.

“Let me see your bruises,” he said, and Sascha angled the phone so he could showcase the skin of his throat, still patched over with discoloration, but clearly improving.

“They’re better,” he said, and then because they were being frank, “but they’d be better still if you were here to lick them.”

Mischa felt his stomach wrench with heat. “I wish I could. I want to taste them.”

“They’ll have faded by the time you see me next,” said Sascha, and his voice was a strange mixture of want and sadness. “Wanna see the ones on my thighs? They’re still bad.”

Mischa couldn’t fool either of them; he wanted to see everything Sascha would show him. “Yes,” he said, with an embarrassing lack of restraint.

So Sascha tapped his phone screen to turn it around, reached down, pulled the legs of his shorts up to expose the creaminess of his inner thighs. The skin was soft and milk-white, marred with the furious bruises Mischa had left, and all he could think of was sinking his teeth into them again and sucking until Sascha groaned for him. In half a second he was hard and watching Sascha stroke long fingers over his skin his cock began to ache.

“No compression shorts today?”

In the background Sascha laughed. “Not a lot of need for those lately.”

“Good point,” said Mischa. He swallowed over the rustiness of his voice. “Sascha, fuck.”

“What?” Sascha’s tone was hot and Mischa understood that he knew exactly _what_. “These are yours, Mischa. You made these. You should be taking care of them.”

He ran a huge palm deliberately along the discolored skin of his left thigh, slipped a finger up under the leg of his shorts. Mischa hissed without realizing he was making noise; Sascha left the camera there for a moment, then he turned it around so he could show his face. His teeth were bared slightly, knifelike edges glinting in the dim light of his room.

“You like to see them, don’t you.”

“You already know the answer to that question,” said Mischa with some difficulty. He thought of how Sascha had yelped for him as he’d bitten his mark into each of his thighs and exhaled.

“Do I?”

Mischa knew what he was asking and he wasn’t above playing games. He flipped the camera around, focused it on where he was absently palming at the obvious bulge in his shorts. Sascha licked his lips once, automatically, and Mischa smiled in triumph before he showed his face again.

“You do now.”

“Ugh.” Sascha tossed a hand over his forehead, flattening his curls so they poked under the lenses of his glasses. He was gorgeous and Mischa was wrecked. “I can’t handle you, Mischa. Fucking tease.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk,” said Mischa. “You know it kills me to watch you touch yourself when I can’t.”

Sascha’s smile was a lazy blade. “I don’t know enough about what kills you. Teach me.”

“You got a pretty solid education last week, I think.”

“Not,” said Sascha, enunciating, “enough.”

Mischa watched his eyes, ran his tongue over his upper lip, hating himself. In his head, Alex’s voice reminded him _that’s your BROTHER,_ but he was getting better at shoving it away.

“What do you want, Sash?”

“You,” said Sascha immediately. “Show me again. I wanna see you.”

Mischa was hot for that. “I wanna see you, too.”

“Yeah?” Sascha smirked, raptor. “I’m hard as fuck.”

Mischa reeled, felt like he might implode. They were teenagers for each other, relentlessly horny about everything, and his blood was crooning. He placed his tongue between his teeth, just slightly, and smiled so Sascha would know he was joking.

“Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Sascha laughed, genuinely, and when he did his face sparked like a flame. “What are you, seventeen on Snapchat?”

“With you? Definitely,” said Mischa, grinning for their same train of thought. “In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, send nudes.”

Sascha was still chuckling. “Better tell me now if you’re not serious, because I will.” He shrugged. “I actually kind of am a tease.”

“Yet another thing you inherited from me,” said Mischa smoothly.

“You taught me well.” Sascha stretched, lazy, before he quirked a thick blonde eyebrow and turned his camera again. Mischa was not surprised to see that Sascha’s hand had disappeared into the waistband of his shorts; he was indeed obviously very hard.

Mischa’s mouth drained.

“Jesus, Sash.”

“Mmhmm.” Sascha’s voice had dropped to that sexual purr that Mischa had come to recognize so well. “Now you.”

So Mischa, figuring it was only fair, flipped his own camera, let Sascha see how hard he was, how his cock twitched of its own accord.

“Fuck, I love watching that,” said Sascha bluntly, and if Mischa had had any blood to spare it would have instantly flooded his face. “I wouldn’t hate it if _you_ sent nudes.”

Mischa chuckled. “You don’t need them. Live action is always better.”

“You talking FaceTime or in person?”

Mischa should have felt guilty, should have felt wrong, should have felt anything to indicate that he regretted this at all, but it was impossible when he was this turned on, watching Sascha slowly jerk himself under his shorts. “In person, obviously.”

Sascha inhaled. “Mischa...”

“Yeah, I know, shut up,” said Mischa. “I can’t stop fucking thinking about it.” He didn’t say what he really meant, _you_.

“Me either,” said Sascha in a rush, “I can’t stop thinking about it either. Everything, but especially that last night.”

Mischa slipped a hand into the waistband of his shorts; he wasn’t wearing boxers, either, and the relief of skin-to-skin contact bulldozed him. “The last time, you mean.”

“Yeah.” Sacha’s voice was rust. “Even out of my heat, it was so fucking good.”

“It was incredible, Sash,” said Mischa with feeling. “It was so nice to just, you know, do it without any crazy heat pheromones. Like, I fucking love the scent, and it was mind blowing, but the last night...it was just us."

“And not in my room, so we weren’t being driven insane by the smell,” said Sascha. Mischa could hear the strain in his voice, the grin.

“Exactly. Hold on,” said Mischa, and he set the phone down on the couch so he could push his shorts over his hips, free himself. He was so hard his cock slapped immediately back against his lower abdomen and when he eased a finger over the slit his skin came away wet.

Sascha took his cue and removed his own shorts and in silence they watched each other, slow taunting rhythm, mutually entranced. Eventually they were both covered in precome from crown to base and Mischa’s stomach was twitching with every movement of his hand; the wetness reminded him of Sascha’s heat slick and the memories were _accosting_ him and that tingling pressure was already blooming in his balls.

“I wish you were here,” gritted Sascha, and Mischa groaned, hapless, witless.

“I’d let you ride me into the bed.”

Sascha choked.

“I’d let you do,” he spat, “anything. Pick me up, pound me against the wall. I just want you to fuck me again.” The hand gripping his cock was a blur.

Mischa’s ears rang. He bit his lower lip so roughly he tasted metal, slicked his thumb over the crown of his cock, boneless.

“I want that too. Want you on all fours for me. Wanna lick inside of you again.”

Sascha was shuddering, breath coming sharp and hot, his cock slick-wet and twitching with every stroke. “Jesus Christ, Mischa.”

“You taste so good, Sash,” ground out Mischa. His peripherals were going white. “So goddamned good, you don’t know.”

“Then taste me again,” said Sascha, and then they were both coming, Mischa sobbing out a cry that he bit into the couch cushion to stifle, Sascha with Mischa’s name growling at the back of his throat. Afterward they turned their cameras front-facing and looked at each other, smirking sheepishly, hands dripping sticky-hot as they each descended from that paradise high.

“We are terrible,” said Sascha after a moment, “at the whole _we shouldn’t do this anymore_ thing.”

“Ugh.” Mischa gave a noise that was half-groan, half-laugh. “We shouldn’t, though.”

“I know,” said Sascha, and he dropped his head back. “You wanna know something totally fucked?”

“Always.”

“I feel better.”

It was true; since he had heard Mischa’s voice, in spite of the initial anger, his energy had started to slowly, slowly return. Now, reclined in bed, spattered with his own cum, watching his brother’s face on the screen before him, his stomach was actually _growling_.

“You do?” Mischa’s eyes went golden with relief. “Thank God. Are you hungry?"

“Yeah.” Sascha made a face. “Starved, actually.”

“Good. Good,” said Mischa, overwhelmed; the depth of his worry for Sascha had been volumes and miles and he hadn’t realized exactly the extent until just now, when it was receding slightly. “Now please go take advantage of that before it goes away. I have to clean up, but I’ll bring you with me.”

“Please do,” said Sascha, and together they went to their respective bathrooms, washed, changed into fresh shorts. Then Sascha went to the kitchen while Mischa went to collapse stomach-down on the couch, feeling calmer than he had since he’d left for Monte Carlo. What they were doing was obviously all kinds of wrong and his belly coiled with that same spear of shame every time he let himself think about it in depth and they both knew that it could not continue. But there was pink to Sascha’s cheeks again, and when he finally sat on the floor of his room with the leftovers he’d retrieved from the kitchen, Mischa’s low pacifying voice in his ear, he ate more than he had in days.

*

BERLIN

“You sure you don’t want me to come?”

Sascha and Marcelo were standing in the airport, beehive clamor of people surrounding them, about to part ways for their separate terminals. Sascha had slept the night through and was looking and feeling slightly more like himself; Marcelo had taken the refreshed sight of him that morning as a good sign.

“I talked to Mischa, though,” Sascha had confessed quietly, as they’d sat together over bowls of cereal. He didn’t say _we jerked off together talking about how we want to fuck each other again_. “I think that’s why I feel better.”

“That not matter,” Marcelo had said, waving an utterly unconcerned hand. “Right now I don’t care how you eat, you just _eat._ One day at a time.”

Now Sascha sighed, clutched at his backpack straps. He felt like a little kid being sent off on his very first flight alone, small and scared, in need of a hand to hold. “I want you to. I just feel like I need to start learning to be okay on my own again.”

 “You _are_ okay,” said Marcelo gently. “Everything weird right now.”

Sascha laughed, pulled a face. “Understatement.”

“I know. I just try to make you feel better.” Marcelo pulled him in by the straps, hugged him closely, dropped a brotherly kiss at the side of his head. “You call, you text, whatever you need, whenever. I fly to Monte Carlo if you change your mind. Me and Lukasz come kick your ass at FIFA, or something. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Sascha, and squeezed back; he knew that Marcelo would drop everything in a heartbeat for his friends and he had never been more grateful. “thank you, Marcelo. You’re literally saving our asses right now."

“Anytime, Sashy,” said Marcelo, and nicked him on the nose. “You have safe flight, you text when you there. Okay? Don’t drive to Mischa’s house. I forbid.”

Sascha laughed out loud. “I won’t. Promise.”

They parted ways amicably and Sascha put his earbuds in and lost himself in a kaleidoscope world of sound, wandered aimlessly around his terminal with a too-big cup of Starbucks, knowing the caffeine would only serve to make him jittery. He was surprised when he felt nothing other than a clear alertness, saucer eyes and straight spine, and when he looked at his phone he saw that Mischa had texted him.

_When are you getting here?_

_Eleven._

_Ah, same time as Mum and Dad._

_Yeah. They’re going to meet me at the airport._

_I figured. I’m having a car sent._

_Also figured._ Sascha’s heart sank; he had been subconsciously holding on to the hope that Mischa might be waiting for them upon arrival. _Are they okay with that?_

_Of course. Your flight’s late, they don’t expect me to be there._

Sascha was having problems breathing. He wanted badly to ask Mischa how they could get away with dodging each other all week but he couldn’t even face the prospect: to be in the same city as the Alpha he clearly, desperately craved without seeing him or touching him would be torture of the most militaristic form.

 _I want you to be,_ he typed out, and just as hastily erased it. He couldn’t keep perpetuating this. Instead he wrote,

_Good point._

Immediately Mischa sent back: _that’s not what you were going to say._

Sascha chuffed out a laugh, disbelieving. _How can you possibly know that?_

_Because I know you, Sash. Tell me._

_I was going to say_ , typed Sascha as his flight number was called over the loudspeaker, _I want you to be there_.

Mischa typed out three different but equally appropriate responses before he finally decided that he had to respect Sascha’s honesty by being honest right back.

_I want to be there, too. I want to touch your face and see you smile for me and make sure you’re all right._

_I would be if I was with you._

_Sash…_ Mischa’s heart was rending itself shred by shred apart. _You’re killing me._

Sascha was blind to everything around him; he slouched towards his gate with his hood up and his eyes down, going off peripheral vision. _I’m sorry. But I can’t hide it from you, and you need to know._

_I know. Thank you for telling me. You know it’s the same for me._

_But you’re the responsible older brother, so you’re better at dealing with this than I am._

_Who the fuck says?_ Mischa was shaking his head, hiding out in the bathroom after his shower, taking as much time as he knew he’d need to hide his face from his observant wife. _You think you’re not on my mind every minute of every day?_

Sascha thrilled. _Am I?_

_I’m DREAMING about you, Sash._

Sascha gave his ticket to the woman at the gate, smiled his thanks, made his way onto the plane. He liked the very back of coach, pressed to the window, earbuds in and hood up. Though it did occasionally happen, it was unlikely that he would be spotted that way, and he preferred to isolate himself, often buying out the whole row so he could stretch out and hide.

_I know you shouldn’t come tonight. I just want to see you.  
_

_Me too. So much. Text me when you get here,_ Mischa wrote, and Sascha sent him a thumbs up and two hearts, because he was feeling dangerous and sentimental. Marcelo had been right to tell him not to go driving to Mischa’s house. The closer he got to Monte Carlo, the more he wanted to break the exact rule that had been set for him.

It wasn’t like it was the first rule they had broken. Sascha wondered how many more they would destroy before they were through.

*

MONTE CARLO

“Mischa,” said Irina, “can you _please_ just come pick us up? I don’t want an Uber driver, I want to see my son. I’ve barely spoken to you since London.”

“Mum, it’s going to be so late,” said Mischa, hedging. He was getting ready to go to dinner with Evgeniya and he was frenzied, torn in multiple directions, thinking of Sascha back in the city _that night_. “It’s a ten minute drive from the airport, you’d barely get to talk to me tonight anyway. You can see me tomorrow.”

“Still. I’d rather you come tonight,” insisted Irina. “Your father would like to see you, too. And we’re bringing Lövik. He misses you.”

At the mention of the dog Mischa smiled in spite of himself, but the mere prospect of catching a glimpse of Sascha had made his heart begin to hurl itself against his ribcage and his palms were starting to prickle with sweat. “Why can’t you just wait until tomorrow morning?”

“Meesh, you know I hate taking Ubers,” said Irina. “I don’t like getting in cars with strangers. Humor me, we’ll take you guys out for dinner tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to do that,” said Mischa. He was very bad at saying no to his mother. “I’ll come get you. You land at the same time as Sash? Eleven thirty?”

“Yes. And we’re taking you out anyway, we want to hear all about the Maldives,” said Irina, and he could hear the happiness in her voice. “ _Dankeschön, Spatz_.” Sparrow.

It was strange for Mischa to hear his mother speak in German; growing up, his parents had spoken mostly Russian with a bit of broken English, so Mischa had learned Russian at home and German in school. When Sascha had been born Mischa became solely responsible for his German tutelage until kindergarten began, and Sascha warmed to each language equally, becoming quite fluent in all three of his tongues. Mischa credited himself for that: he had worked tirelessly with his little brother until Sascha’s pronunciation was nearly perfect.

“ _Gern geschehen, Mama,_ ” said Mischa, disguising the panic in his voice with practiced patience. “I’ve got to go now, I’m having dinner with Evi. Let me know when you land and I’ll come get you.”

“Perfect,” said Irina. “Have a good dinner and tell her we said hi.”

They exchanged goodbyes and Mischa hung up; turned to find Evgeniya standing in the doorway, amused.

“She talked you into it, huh.”

“She always does,” said Mischa, helpless. “She has such a weird thing about Ubers.”

“Can’t actually blame her,” said Evgeniya, smiling. “Shall we go?”

So they went. Mischa got into the driver’s seat feeling like his skin was on fire, pulse shrieking, hands unsteady. He no longer had two weeks to play with before seeing Sascha again; he had several hours. First, however, he had to get through dinner, act like nothing was wrong in front of his wife, play normal. He blasted a playlist Sascha had made in the Maldives through his speakers, threw the car in reverse, and sped away down the road with his head a planet away. Nothing would help him now except a couple of beers and music louder than every intrusive thought that threatened at the forefront of his mind.

Dinner was slow; Mischa made leisure a point. He didn’t want to go home; he didn’t want to be alone with his wife. He wanted clamor and dim light and distant chatter; he wanted the occasional interruption of a waiter asking if they needed anything at all. He was the epitome of unprepared and he didn’t know how he could tell Sascha that he was coming but before he knew it they were finishing their food and it was ten pm. He planned to drop Evi at home before he went to the airport so she could get some sleep; she was a part-time design consultant and she had a meeting early the next morning with her boss.

“Sure you don’t want me to come along?”

“Nah, babe,” said Mischa automatically, looking at her as she opened the passenger door. “I’ll be back a little after midnight. No point in you coming with me when you need to rest.”

“Okay,” said Evgeniya, and smiled. “Just let me know when you’re on your way back, will you?”

“Of course.” Mischa leaned over and lightly kissed her mouth. “Rest well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

It was ten forty-five. He would be seeing Sascha in less than half an hour.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Response to this story has been incredible. All of you are giving me life, thank you so much for the love and feedback because without it I couldn't do this. <3
> 
> There is going to be so much toeing the line over these next few chapters because they're just SO HORNY for each other and the bond makes them crazy and after heat Alphas and Omegas literally NEED to be close. Wonder how long it'll take for everyone to start to notice what's up? :D

Sascha’s plane landed ten minutes early; he texted Marcelo (even though he knew he’d still be on a plane) and Mischa to alert them of his arrival and upon stepping into the terminal immediately received a phone call from his father. He and Irina had just landed, and they were requesting to meet him at baggage. 

He wandered through the airport half in a daze, earbud in one ear and phone glued to the other, webbed between the deep bark of his father’s voice and the dreamlike trip-hop rhythm of his music. Before he rounded the corner to luggage claim he checked himself in the bathroom mirror: tan, exhausted, dark circles, but he’d masked them as best he could with his glasses, and his hoodie was zipped all the way up. Not a single bruise could be seen.

By the time he made it to the correct conveyer belt Alex, Irina, and Lövik were already waiting for him; they’d packed lightly, as they already had abundant supplies at both of their sons’ houses. Sascha had checked one bag and his flight’s belt was already moving.

“Hi, hi!” Irina shouted at him as he approached, clutching Lövik, and he smiled for her exuberance. “I think I see your bag - the green one?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, glancing over to confirm, and Alex went to grab it while Sascha embraced his mother tightly. Lövik kissed his face, yelping in excitement, and Sascha took the little dog from her arms, cradled him as he squirmed and whined. Irina held Sascha’s forearms, paused, drew back to look at his face; he arched his eyebrows at her while Lövik continued to lavish him in kisses.

“Hi, Mum.”

“Sascha, darling, you look so tired,” said Irina, all concern. “Have you been ill? You look sick.”

“Uh, yeah,” said Sascha, as Alex strolled back up to them hoisting his son’s bag. “I had a little bit of a stomach bug or something. Came down with it last night, didn’t sleep much.”

“You should have told us, Sash,” said Alex, worry lining his eyes. “We could have postponed the trip a day.”

“Eh. I wanted to get home and see you guys.” Sascha shrugged, hugged his father hard with Lövik writhing happily between them. “I’ll bounce back. No worries.”

Irina’s phone beeped; she checked it and jumped a bit. “Oh! Your brother is waiting for us outside, he’s parked right by the sliding doors. Sascha, are you sure you’re all right? You don’t look well at all.”

Sascha’s heart had ceased to beat; the automatic systems of his body no longer seemed able to function, and blood as loud as the island storm was howling in his ears. He forced himself to take a breath, kept his head down.

“Mischa’s here?” 

“Your mother convinced him not to send an Uber,” said Alex, rolling his eyes. “He succumbed quite easily.”

“Well,” said Irina indignantly as they walked towards the exit. Neither she nor Alex seemed to notice that Sascha was quietly losing his mind. “They’re not the safest, come on. And I want to see _both_ of my sons, not just one.”

Numb, Sascha pulled his phone from his pocket and saw that he had missed three text messages from Mischa.

One: _So, I have news._

Two: _Call me before you meet Mum and Dad._

Three: _don’t freak out, but I’m here._

She took Lövik from Sascha’s arms; then they were crossing through the doors and walking outside and time felt like an illusion. Sascha was floating, bodiless, out of depth as he overcame his shock, re-learned how to control his basic motor functions. The second he emerged into the night air he spotted Mischa’s black Range Rover parked over against the curb and he felt like Alice tumbling endlessly down the rabbit hole, except it wasn’t to Wonderland he was going.

Mischa was leaning long against the side of the car, gazing down at his phone with his lower lip folded between his teeth, looking for all the world as though he could not be more calm. He was beautiful and familiar and just for the sight of him Sascha felt gold begin to flow through his veins, how sturdy he was, how _safe._ He understood that Mischa was anything but relaxed but his facade was professional and impressive and Sascha was almost convinced until Mischa looked up straight into his eyes. Instantly the atmosphere between them hummed for that imminent strike of lightning.

Staggered, Sascha gawked; he was conscious of the fact that he had involuntarily ceased to move and commanded himself to step forward. His heartbeat felt treacherous and he was half-hard just being in Mischa’s presence and he didn’t know where to put his hands. Alex and Irina were already running to meet Mischa, who for his part hitched a convincing smile onto his face and hugged them both, kissed Lövik, his eyes always, always, always glued to Sascha’s. Now that they were within several feet of each other Sascha could see clearly that Mischa looked like he hadn’t been sleeping well, either. Around them the air was burning, Pompeii.

Sascha approached his family, timid, and cleared his throat so he wouldn’t croak like a toad.

“What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t you get my text? Mum used the dangerous-Uber-driver argument to convince me to come get you guys,” said Mischa. Relief and another emotion, something strong that Sascha couldn’t name, canvassed his face. “Hey, Sash.”

“Hey, Meesh,” said Sascha, and he wasn’t sure what to _do_ and then Mischa was stepping forward and enfolding him into a massive embrace. Sascha was both aroused and on the verge of tears and he knew just from the way Mischa smelled that he was experiencing the exact same widespread range of emotion. The fact that he could interpret this correctly under layers of clean and cologne and Alpha suppressants made his stomach lurch. 

Mischa pulled away before they could go overboard, his hand falling away from where it had habitually gripped the scruff of Sascha’s neck. As he wandered around to the back of his car to open the trunk he sneezed into his hand - obviously fake, Sascha couldn’t believe no one else could see it - but when he came up from it he swiped surreptitiously at his eyes and Sascha knew he was wrestling to keep himself in check. He gulped over the lump in his own throat and went to throw his backpack in beside his parents’ bags. Everything felt new and his brain was producing copious amounts of positive chemicals and he was _happy_. Mischa was _here_. All was, for the time being, well.

Alex and Irina, mercifully, seemed quite oblivious to this new dynamic that had settled between their sons. Alex asked, as he clambered into the backseat,

“Where’s Evi?”

“She’s asleep. She has an early meeting,” said Mischa steadily, but Sascha watched his hands as he shut the trunk and found them shaking. Irina was already climbing into the back beside her husband with Lövik in tow and the look that passed between Sascha and Mischa in the absence of scrutiny was calamitous. Sascha had never felt like this in his life, he was an overflowing fountain, a cherry tree in bloom for his sun. Renewed. When he climbed into the passenger seat he recognized that Mischa was listening to his Maldives playlist and went warm to his fingertips. 

“Good choice,” he said, tapping the radio, and Mischa beamed.

“Where do you guys want to go for dinner tomorrow?” Irina asked, as they drove away. “Sash, I was telling Mischa we want to hear all about the Maldives.”

Sascha was gripping his hoodie strings so tightly he was afraid they’d snap. He kept his gaze fixed steady out the window, into the artificially lit magnificence of the city. “Oh yeah?”

“There really isn’t a lot to tell you about,” said Mischa. “Just a lot of swimming and peanut butter sandwiches and hitting.”

“And relaxing, I hope,” said Alex, amused.

Sascha turned around, petted Lövik on his furry head so he had an excuse to smile. “A ton of relaxing. Probably too much, I’m gonna be out of shape.”

Mischa said, “is that even possible, skeletor?” And without thinking Sascha smacked at him, amused and annoyed to hear his most detested of nicknames fall from Mischa’s tongue. He hated how lean he was, always complaining that he wanted Mischa’s bulk, but Mischa had always loved his brother’s physique, elegant and lithe as he grew into the man he was today.

“Shut up." 

“Make me,” said Mischa, low as he grinned, and Sascha’s blood sizzled. The left side of his body, the side nearest to Mischa, was on fire with his proximity; Mischa was tapping the fingers of his right hand against his thigh in an audible, wrecked rhythm and Sascha knew he was feeling the same.

“Boys,” said Irina lazily. “Behave. Are you guys hungry now? Do we need to stop before we get home?”

“Yes,” said Alex, and Sascha said, “ _yes_ ,” with such vehemence that Mischa’s heart leapt. With perhaps excessive enthusiasm he asked,

“You’re hungry?”

“Let’s go through a drive thru,” said Sascha, quirking his mouth at Mischa, who looked overjoyed at this positive display. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

*

They stopped at McDonald’s, at which Alex, foodie that he was, would normally have turned his nose, but there was really nothing open so late on a Tuesday and fast food would have to get them through until the morning. Sascha ordered two sandwiches and a large fry and watching him eat at the kitchen table Mischa could have cried for about the third time that day.

They were all exhausted. Alex and Irina kissed Sascha and Mischa good night nearly as soon as they finished eating; Mischa followed them to the living room to watch them walk up the stairs and when he heard the distinctive sound of a door shutting he exhaled audibly, turned around, found Sascha standing behind him. 

For a moment they just looked at each other. Sascha’s eyes were round and glimmering and the smell of him was nearly too much for Mischa to handle; Sascha had not taken suppressants since his heat and his scent was _noticeable_. It was familiar, but different somehow, more complex; Mischa could detect sadness and exhaustion and anxiety buried underneath everything else. He wondered if that was normal, understood that it was not, filed the thought away for safekeeping.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” said Sascha at last, low. “I didn’t - Dad called me right after you texted me so I didn’t see – ”

“I figured,” said Mischa gently. “I was so glad when you said you were hungry. You’re scaring the fuck out of me, Sascha.”

“This whole thing is scaring the fuck out of me,” said Sascha, blunt. “We weren’t supposed to see each other until Perth. I wasn’t – I didn’t prepare for this, Mischa.”

“Me neither,” said Mischa. His eyes were apprehensive. “Are you upset?” 

“ _No_ ,” said Sascha, with such vigor Mischa was startled. “I’m so happy to see you, Mischa. But I didn’t know what to do in front of Mum and Dad, I wanted to…to run to you, to kiss you, I was afraid they’d know…”

“I know,” said Mischa, relief palpable in his voice. “I thought the same. You did beautifully, though, Sash, don’t worry. We’re sensitive to each other right now, so we pick up on the little things, but they didn’t have a clue. We’re safe.” 

He didn’t say _for now_ but Sascha heard it nonetheless because he thought it too and the truth of it was shattering.

“You smell different,” he said, cautious. “The same, but different. More layers.”

“You too,” said Mischa. “You’re sad, and anxious, and you’ve been _so_ tired. And I would know that even if you hadn’t told me, because I can smell it all.”

They were locked in place; Sascha was afraid to move an inch.

“What does that mean? That we can sense that?”

Mischa looked at him and his eyes broadcast volumes. They both suspected the truth but neither of them was going to give voice to the mutual hunch.

“I don’t know, Sash.” 

“It’s insane how much better I instantly felt just _looking_ at you,” said Sascha on a harsh exhale. “When you’re with me I feel normal. Happy.”

“I feel normal too,” said Mischa, “except I was so fucking nervous to see you I almost couldn’t drive.”

Sascha grinned, cheeks blossoming red like wine. “You were nervous to see me?”

“Shut up,” said Mischa, embarrassed. “I’ve been thinking about us being reunited since I left. I didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

“Me neither,” said Sascha. He shrugged and the movement accented the sharpness of his shoulderbones. “But we were stupid to think we could ever get away with not seeing each other this week. Mum was ready to break your fucking door down.”

Mischa laughed. “She was persistent, that’s for sure.”

“Finally something I get from her, not you.”

“What? Persistence?”

“No. Wanting to break your door down.”

Mischa searched his face, hooked his teeth over his lower lip like he did when he was weighing his odds.

“Yeah?” 

“Marcelo told me not to drive to your place,” said Sascha, with impressive steadiness. “He knew I would want to go to you the second I touched down, and he was right.”

Mischa was electric for him, voltage. “And would you have?”

“What?” 

“Driven to my house. Kicked in my door.”

“I don’t know,” said Sascha truthfully, “but I thought about it. More than once.”

Mischa blinked, nodded. He shifted forward, hesitated, curtailed himself.

“I thought about coming here, too.”

“You’re here,” said Sascha, and Mischa felt the air shift delicately between them; their proximity was too much to deny and consequent physical reactions were unavoidable. Mischa’s body recognized Sascha as his (acting? He had to add that word for his own mental health) Omega and he wanted to do things to him, with him, wanted to care for him and tend to him and curl around him while he slept.

“I’m here,” said Mischa, and he closed his eyes. “You smell so fucking good, Sash. I can tell that you…”

“What?” Sascha was nervous; he knew that Mischa could smell arousal on him, and there was no phone screen to hide behind now. “You can tell that I what?”

“You’re turned on,” said Mischa, low, and he cut his eyes away in embarrassment. “It’s not as strong, but it’s like you’re scenting.”

Sascha flushed, a mottled, ferocious thing that stole blood from every part of his body.

“I mean,” he said, flustered. “Of course, Mischa. You’re _here_. My body knows you. I can tell that you are, too.”

“Yeah,” croaked Mischa, “I am. I have been since the airport.”

“Me too,” said Sascha in a rush, and then Mischa reached out and grabbed Sascha’s wrist and pulled him away from the bottom of the stairs, where they would be clearly visible if Alex and Irina decided to emerge from their room and poke their heads over the railing. Through the kitchen, into the living room they went, and Sascha thought for a moment that Mischa was going to lead him into the master bedroom but instead he halted behind the couch, pushed Sascha gently against it, pinned him while they gazed at each other in fearful exhilaration.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve missed you so much,” said Mischa, fervent, and that was all it took for easy tears to begin flowing down Sascha’s fair cheeks. Mischa shook his head, pressed his forehead to Sascha’s own, stemmed the flood as best he could with his fingertips. All the while he murmured, “no, Sash, no, don’t cry, I hate it when you cry.”

“I can’t help it,” said Sascha, and he hated himself for how close he already was to sobbing. “I haven’t felt right since you left. I’ve been – you know how I’ve been, and now just _seeing_ you I feel normal again. You’re so beautiful, Mischa. You feel so good.”

Mischa was crying now, too; he couldn’t help himself. “You do too, Sascha. It feels so amazing to be close to you. I thought I’d have to wait for two weeks to see you, and knowing how bad you’ve been feeling – how bad _I’ve_ made you feel – ”

“Shut up,” said Sascha, and now he was the one shaking his head. “I don’t care. You’re just doing what you have to do, I don’t care about any of it. You’re _here_.” 

He pitched forward, collapsed into Mischa’s arms; Mischa held him like he was life, like he was everything, and if he was truthful with himself that was exactly what Sascha _was_. The feel of him, how warm he was, how pliant; the smell of him and the way his chest heaved slightly as he wept. Mischa couldn’t clutch him tightly enough to make up for the anguish he’d put his brother through by leaving him ( _abandoned_ , his mind clarified, _you abandoned him_ ) but he did his best and Sascha for his part appeared to be greatly satiated. Without even a thought for what he was doing, simply following the primal guidance of his nature, Mischa drew back, unzipped Sascha’s hoodie so his bruises were exposed. Traced his fingertips over the multicolored layers of Sascha’s skin so he whimpered.

“They’re healing well,” he said, hushed; he thrilled to look at the marks he had left on Sascha’s body.

“They look pretty much the same as they did last night,” said Sascha, amused. He sniffed, wiped his nose on his hoodie sleeve, and automatically Mischa reached into his pocket, withdrew his handkerchief, gave it to Sascha so he could mop his face.

“I told you everything is better in person,” he said, and smiled.

“I never disagreed,” said Sascha easily. “I still can’t believe you’re here, Meesh.”

“Me, neither,” said Mischa. “I planned to fight slightly harder than I did.”

“You’ve always been shit at saying no to Mum.”

“And you.”

“Thank God,” said Sascha, and they grinned shiftily at each other before cutting their eyes away. Mischa was still rubbing over Sascha’s bruises; unconsciously he leaned into the touch, shut his eyes. When he opened them again Mischa was watching him and Sascha knew what he was going to ask before he did.

“Do you want me to clean them for you?”

Sascha shuddered and his lower stomach _yanked_ with hot arousal.

“Yes.” 

For a long, long moment Mischa searched his face. Then he bent over and began to lap soundlessly at Sascha’s throat. When his tongue made contact with skin Sascha gave a low, satisfied sigh and he dropped his head back, roped his arms around Mischa’s hips, guided him closer. Within seconds they were achingly hard against each other and Mischa brought his hands up to curl through Sascha’s hair, keep his head still as he pinioned him back against the couch, tasted the damage he had done. It was enough that without Sascha holding him up he knew he’d be brought to his knees.

He licked every centimeter of Sascha’s neck once, twice. When he thought he’d go airless from arousal he drew away and looked in Sascha’s eyes and found there a color so dark he couldn’t assign it a name. 

“Better?” 

“Yes,” sighed Sascha, soft, “in some ways.”

Mischa groaned. “I know.”

“You could stay, you know,” said Sascha, and it was clear what he was insinuating. “If Evgeniya has to work tomorrow. You could just text her and tell her you got caught up talking, didn’t see the time.”

In his life Mischa had never been more tempted.

“I want to, Sascha,” he said, soft. “You don’t know how much I want to.”

Sascha’s face fell, marginally. “But you can’t.”

Mischa twisted his mouth; there was nothing he hated more than disappointing his little brother. “You know I can’t.”

“I know, I know.” Sascha sighed. “I just – can you not sleep with her tonight? I want to bask in you for a little bit.”

Mischa gave a strangled laugh. “Please. I’m probably going to jerk off in my fucking driveway after this.”

Sascha smiled, but his eyes flashed with that immoral darkness and he shifted forward so Mischa could not mistake the fact that he was initiating friction between them. “You don’t have to do that, Mischa.”

Mischa shut his eyes, blew out a breath; when he looked up again Sascha was so close he could count his eyelashes, lush blond outlining the thin green line of his irises. “I know,” he said, and rubbed his forehead across Sascha’s own, and just like that they were kissing, Sascha’s hands fisting around Mischa’s collar, Mischa’s hips crowded flush to Sascha’s own. The urgency between them was unparalleled and when Mischa bit gently at Sascha’s lower lip he moaned aloud. Mischa drew back in alarm, placed a hand over Sascha’s mouth; they looked at each other and listened and snickered through the buzz of dread: they could be heard, they could be discovered, and what, what, _what_ then?

Nothing good.

“If you stayed,” said Sascha, muffled against Mischa’s fingers, “we’d have to be quiet.”

Mischa’s heart was cracking against his chest. He already knew the answer to his own question but he posed it anyway.

“Can we do that?”

Sascha smirked, mirthless. “Not a chance.”

“I didn’t think so,” said Mischa. He kissed Sascha’s jawline, his collarbone, before he stepped back, regret in his eyes. “I should go.”

“You should,” said Sascha, but his expression was pained, and all he wanted was to say _don't, don't, don't_. “I’ll walk you out.”

In silence they padded towards the front door, their fingers twisting and linking and braiding between them, and when Mischa stepped through the entranceway out onto the front step Sascha bulldozed forward and kissed him hard on the mouth. If anyone had been around they might have seen but it was late and there was no one and in the dark they could be as anonymous as they pleased.

“I’m glad you came,” said Sascha with his eyes closed, and Mischa smiled against his lips. “Come more. Come tomorrow.”

“I’ll be coming tonight,” said Mischa hoarsely, and Sascha chuckled like a fiend.

“Me too.”

“But dinner tomorrow.” 

“That’s going to be hilarious. I won’t even be able to sit next to you.”

“You can,” said Mischa recklessly, “and you should. It would be weird for us _not_ to sit next to each other.”

“Asking for it, Meesh,” said Sascha, laughing.

“Maybe,” said Mischa on a shrug, “but you’ll eat if you’re beside me, and you need to, because Mum is not going to stop eyeballing you if you don’t get your color up.”

Sascha hung his head. “I know.”

“So it’s settled then,” breathed Mischa, and he ghosted a kiss over Sascha’s lips before he stepped back, down onto the sidewalk. “Be good for me, Sash, and get a good night’s sleep, yeah? I need you healthy. We did so much work to keep you that way.”

Sascha rolled his eyes, but he was beaming. “Yeah, like it was so hard.”

“It was,” said Mischa, and he winked as he opened the driver’s side door of his Range Rover. “I’ll text you when I get home. I love you.”

“I love you too,” said Sascha, and feeling like a teenager in an eighties brat pack movie he propped himself against the doorframe and watched wistfully until Mischa’s car was out of eyesight. The night had not gone at all as he had expected, but despite the fact that his body was screaming for Mischa’s touch he couldn’t call himself unhappy. He knew what he was going to do. 

*

Mischa realized that he shouldn’t open Sascha’s texts while he was driving because he had a sneaking suspicion of what they would contain but he was a creature of apparently zero self control and he looked anyway. Though he’d had a vague idea of what was coming he still nearly veered off the road when he saw what Sascha had sent him.

 _Send nudes_ , he’d teased when they were Facetiming, and Sascha had replied, _better tell me now if you’re not serious, because I will_. And indeed, Sascha had called his bluff. He’d sent Mischa a photo of himself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, that stupid cocksure smirk on his pretty lips, bruises stark against the harshness of the light. He was naked save for boxers and one hand was shoved inside his waistband, gripping his very clearly stiff cock. Mischa clacked his jaw shut; he was in danger of salivating all down his shirt.

_Are you fucking kidding me, Sascha? Do you want me to wreck?_

_You said send nudes. I’m just complying with your wishes._

_Fuck off_ , wrote Mischa, and then he added, _but send more._

_I could just Facetime you again._

Mischa considered; his blood was pounding. Foggily he realized he could have brought Sascha out to the Range Rover and fucked him howling in the backseat but then his rational brain reminded him that this was on the list of things that they were Not Supposed To Do and he sighed out loud. He wished he hadn’t worn jeans; he was achingly hard and there was no room for all of the twitching and straining that was currently happening.

_Yes. But wait until I’m home. Told you I’d be jerking off in my car._

_You should have let me jerk you off in your car._

_I thought about fucking you in my car_ , wrote Mischa, and wanted to die. He was doing absolutely nothing to alleviate their situation and he knew it and he still couldn’t bring himself to care at all. He understood that it was likely because of how very _Alpha_ Sascha made him: Alphas had little self control around their Omegas and vice versa and it was particularly tough to refrain from physicality immediately following an intense heat; this seemed to be exactly the case here. _Bonded_ , his mind reminded him with obscene cheer, and he curled his toes inside of his shoes before he pulled up Sascha’s response.

_Jesus. Come back._

_We are fucking terrible._

_I know_. _You’d think we’d have had enough sex to last the year.  
_

Mischa laughed out loud and in the middle of replying he was interrupted by another photo: this one very much the same, but without boxers. He swore out loud.

_Sascha. Fucking hell. I’m about to pull over._

_That would be the greatest accomplishment of my life. Making you pull over to jerk off to my nudes._

Mischa shook his head, grinned, pressed a quelling palm to his furious cock. _Your greatest accomplishment? Have you already forgotten about_ _London?_

_What about London? Nothing has ever meant more to me than you._

Mischa felt his mouth drain; he knew Sascha was serious, and the feeling was more mutual than he could ever express over text. He called him instead, and Sascha's voice when he answered was honey-warm and satisfied.

“Thought you were waiting till you got home.”

“How could I, after something like that?” Mischa was so emotional he felt strung out. “Sascha, I love you more than anything on this earth, you know that?”

“I know, Meesh,” said Sascha gently. “I love you that much, too.”

“And god damn you for your ability to make me hard as fuck and want to cry at the same time.”

“Plenty of both of those things happening lately,” said Sascha, and they both laughed. “Are you home yet? I want you to see me cum.”

Mischa’s eyes rolled back for that. “It’s dark in my car. You won’t be able to see anything.”

“You have an overhead light, don’t you?”

“Thank God one of us is clearheaded.”

“It’s not me,” said Sascha, and hissed out loud; Mischa knew he was touching himself.

“I mean, I’m about to unzip in the middle of driving, so.”

“ _Mischa_.” Sascha was laughing and the sound was so beautiful; after the last few days Mischa had irrationally worried that he’d never hear it again.

“What? You can’t make those noises in my ear and expect me not to lose my mind.”

Sascha’s words dripped poisonous sin, snake fangs. “And you can’t talk about fucking me in the back of your car and not expect me to need to cum _right now_.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Mischa was turning into his neighborhood and it might have been divine intervention because driving safely was the last thing on his mind. “Fuck, I’m almost home. Facetime me.”

Sascha disconnected and two seconds later he was calling again; Mischa accepted, looked into his brother’s face, all renewed sunshine glow. He appeared strong and healthy again, and every single textbook sign of a bond was present but Mischa kept turning his face, deliberately obtuse. The second he pulled into his black silent driveway he was unbuttoned and unzipped and the sudden lack of restraint when he freed himself made him groan aloud. He clicked the overhead light on so Sascha could see him and when he looked down he found his brother openmouthed on his phone screen, tongue pressed to the middle of his upper lip.

“I love that you’re doing this,” breathed Sascha, watching him like he was a show. “In your car, so your wife can’t catch you. It’s so dirty, Mischa.”

It was true; Mischa had never been as sexually exploratory in his life as he had with Sascha. “I love that we’re doing this again when you’re twelve miles down the road.”

Sascha smirked, batted at his dick so it smacked angrily against his lower belly. “It was the right call. As much as I want you here I absolutely would be screaming your name and _that_ would bring it all down on our heads.”

Mischa swallowed, shuddered through his first stroke, palm coming away soaked. “I’d lose it for that.”

“I lose it for everything you do, Mischa,” said Sascha softly, and his voice was decimated.

“But you feel better?” Even now, in the middle of jerking himself and watching Sascha do the same, Mischa was worried.

“So much better, you don’t know,” said Sascha forcefully. “I think just having you in the same city helps me.”

“I think so, too,” said Mischa. He had been feeling far less displaced, less restless, since Sascha had arrived; here he could keep an eye on him, go to him if needed. “I can still taste you. Your bruises.”

“I can still feel you licking them,” said Sascha. “I’ve never had anyone use their tongue on me like you do.”

Mischa was triumphant. “Never, huh.”

“Never,” said Sascha, and his eyes slammed shut. “When you ate me out…Jesus.”

“You were so hot,” said Mischa, aware that this kind of talk would bring him to orgasm in two minutes. “Moaning for me like that. And then you started overflowing and…god damn, Sash.”

“I want you to do it again,” breathed Sascha. Mischa could see the muscles of his abdomen twitching as he thrust up into his hand and knew he was close, too. 

“I want to do it again,” said Mischa, no control. “I want you to let me lick you everywhere.”

Sascha gave a choked laugh. “You want me to _let you_? Like you don’t know you have my permission to do whatever?”

“Sash…” Mischa was keening. “This is fucked.”

“I don’t care,” said Sascha. “I don’t want to stop.” And then he cried out and as Mischa watched thick milky fluid streaming between his brother’s long fingers he thought of how Sascha had said _you should have let me jerk you off in your car_ and his vision went white. 

When he crept like a spy into his bedroom ten minutes later it was dark and the fan was spinning slow and Evgeniya was entrenched in sleep so deep she didn’t stir when he climbed under the covers. He was awake for another half hour texting Sascha and he didn’t close his eyes until Sascha informed him that he was _about to pass out, Meesh, I’m so tired. I love you._

Mischa rolled to his side, punched his pillow into shape, sighed. He should have been sleepless with shame but he was not. He felt whole and well and relaxed and within five minutes he was dreaming.

*

The next day Sascha awoke feeling like a human being for the first time since Mischa had left him with Marcelo in Berlin; from the grainy chrome light streaking through the room he guessed it was either unholy early or raining outside and he could not guess the hour. Rolling onto his stomach he stretched, checked his phone: Marcelo and Mischa had both texted him to check up, and Alex had messaged him to tell him they’d gone out for breakfast, ask him if he wanted anything. When Sascha saw the time he grimaced: it was already half past eleven.

He sat up, ran a hand back through his sleep-flat curls, picked up his glasses from the side table and slid them onto his nose. Then he called his mother to request that she bring him breakfast. He still wasn’t feeling one hundred percent, but the knowledge that Mischa was nearby and could theoretically come whenever he called bolstered him considerably.

“You look better today, Sash,” said Irina half an hour later as they sat at the kitchen table; she was watching him finish his bagel with approval. “Not quite as tired.”

“Mmm.” Sascha kept his eyes to his plate, deliberately not looking at her. By his juice glass his phone lit up; he didn’t have to look to know who it was and he bit his lower lip over a smile. “Yeah, it was rough, I couldn’t keep anything down for a bit. I’m sure just eating and sleeping helped.”

“I’m sure.” She put a hand to his forehead, smiled when he automatically turned his head, little protest of _mum_ through a mouthful of food. “You’re not feverish. Do you think you’d be okay to hit today?” 

“Uh,” said Sascha, panic slashing his chest because there was only one answer to the question he was about to ask, “maybe. With who?”

“Who do you think? Your brother,” said Irina, giving him a strange look. “He’s not doing anything until dinner, your father already asked him. He said he’d be willing if you were.”

Sascha tried not to focus on the implication of what she was saying; he could feel his throat heating up and knew he was flushing. In his mind, a kaleidoscope whirlwind: how to hide the bruises, how to hide from their parents the obvious attraction between them when they were sweating and feral on the tennis court, how, how, how. “Yeah, I mean, I would. Isn’t it raining?” 

“It is. I bet you’re sick of that, huh.”

Sascha gave a choke of a laugh. “Uh. Yeah.”

“The club will have an open indoor court,” said Irina. She made a face. “You know how your dad gets. He’s so excited after London, he just wants you to keep going.”

“I know,” said Sascha. He was used to Alex’s militaristic training techniques; to him, the reward for success was more hitting, harder drilling. _No days off_ , he would say, until Irina stepped in and forced his hand to allow their sons respite from their rigorous routine. “I’d hit. But I don’t really want to go hard. I’m still kind of off from – last week. I need a little bit of time to bounce back.” 

“That’s what I said,” said Irina gently. “He was all right with that.”

“Where is Dad, anyway?” Sascha stood up, hiked his collar further up his throat; he was riding the line and he knew it, but to those who knew his simple fashion sense a turtleneck would look even more conspicuous than constant fidgeting. “Did he go somewhere?”

“He’s in the shower,” said Irina. “If you go now, you can get out of the house before he even realizes you’re gone.”

Sascha turned from where he was washing his dish at the sink; grinned as she winked. “Mum. Are you conspiring?'

“Yes, actually,” said Irina, beaming back. “If he goes along we all know it won’t be an easy hit. I’ll figure out a way to distract him until you two are done, don’t worry.”

“You’re the best,” said Sascha, and he leaned down to kiss her before he ran back to his room to get changed, shooting Mischa a frantic text as he went.

_You’re willing if I am, huh.  
_

Mischa texted him back immediately.

_What was I supposed to say? No?_

_Maybe? Do you know how hard it’s going to be for us to be around each other when we’re sweaty?_ Sascha rummaged through his cupboard, pulled out his medicine bottle, swallowed two capsules with water. _I’m taking an extra pill. I don’t want to drive you insane._

_Not possible. It’ll be fine, Sash. We’re going to have to learn to deal with it._

_I know. Do you want me to pick you up?_

Pause; Mischa was typing, then not typing, then typing again. Sascha’s heart was a mess for waiting.

_If we get in the same car after we hit and I can smell you it won’t be good. I’ll meet you in fifteen. Don’t let dad come.  
_

Sascha groaned aloud; he had offered because he had wanted Mischa alone, wanted the cozy privacy of a vehicle, the two of them in the rain again, but he’d known Mischa would refuse, just like he’d denied Sascha the offer of intimacy the previous night. Sascha knew what Mischa wanted and he wanted to give it to him but he also knew that Mischa’s _older brother_ instincts were taking over and it was going to take some work to crack him. If they were jerking off to each other over a Facetime call they could smooth it over; if they started physically fucking around in earnest after expressly committing to stop, the situation became even more deeply complex than it already was. But Sascha could recall how frantically Mischa had kissed him the night before, how Mischa had said _I want you to let me lick you everywhere_ , and his chest swooped like a hawk dive.

 _I won’t. Mischa_ …

_Yeah. Come on._

*

Mischa understood that defense mechanisms would do fuck-all against the powerful call of Sascha’s pheromones but still he swallowed two suppressants, rubbed chapstick under his nose, chewed the strongest possible mint gum he could find in the house. By the time he arrived to the courts, five minutes early and saturated with rain, his heart was thwacking feverishly against his ribcage and his hands were trembling. He was nervous to see Sascha, again.

Pros that trained at the facility were given access to the ten private courts in the back quadrant of the grounds; it was off-season on a weekday and many people were out of the country and there was no one else around when Mischa arrived. To distract himself he turned his music all the way up and started lapping the court and on his third round Sascha was there to fall flawlessly into step with him. 

“Hi,” he said softly, and Mischa knocked sideways into him.

“Hey.”

“Remember when I asked you if you were going to come over while Mum and Dad were here?” 

Mischa groaned, knowing. “Uh huh.”

“Remember how you were like, _I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sash_?”

“I don’t recall that,” said Mischa, expression perfectly blank, and Sascha laughed out loud, sharp shocked yelp in the echoing silence of the facility.

“Uh huh. Fuck off with your bullshit.”

“Make me,” said Mischa, and Sascha stopped where he was, grabbed Mischa’s arm and pulled him back, bulled down into his face.

“Are you flirting with me?”

“Not even a little bit,” said Mischa, but he lifted an eyebrow, winked so Sascha would know that he was being arch. Sascha beamed. “You look much better today.”

“Because you’re here,” said Sascha bluntly, and Mischa set his mouth in a severe line.

“How are they today?” 

Sascha knew what he meant, unzipped his hoodie so Mischa could scrutinize his throat. Tilted his chin up, parted his lips, and Mischa wanted to kiss him so urgently his stomach clenched. “Maybe a little lighter, I don’t know. I’d be fucked if it was hot and I couldn’t wear this.”

“We’d just have made up a mystery lover,” said Mischa matter-of-factly; he didn’t like to dwell on negative what-ifs. “We’d have handled it.”

“How am I going to hide this at dinner?”

“Do you own a turtleneck?”

Sascha laughed, reached over to brush Mischa’s hair from his eyes, and Mischa glowed. “Yeah. One. I’m not wearing it.”

“Oh, the one Mum bought you for Christmas?” 

“ _Genau_.”

“I don’t blame you. That thing is horrible.” Mischa sighed, jerked his head, took off so Sascha would follow him. Their sneakers squeaked against the polished court surface, comfortable noise against the tension. “Well, you have two other options.”

“And they are?”

“Scarf,” said Mischa, grinning. “Or makeup.”

“You really think we’re going somewhere too fancy for me to wear a hoodie?”

“Hundred bucks says we’re going to Angelo’s.”

“I will not take that bet,” said Sascha, laughing. “You’d think Mum would be tired of that place by now.”

Angelo’s was one of the fanciest seafood restaurants in the city. It was a family tradition – initiated by Irina – for the Zverevs to dine there at least once together when they were all in town. Sascha and Mischa thought it was overrated, but they put up with it to see their mother looking so happy.

“You’d think, but she’s definitely not,” said Mischa cheerfully. “There’s a pharmacy about a mile from here. I’m sure they’ll be able to cover all of your makeup needs.”

“Will you go with me?” Sascha was embarrassed to realize that he was holding his breath.

“Of course, if you want me to,” said Mischa, and as they pulled up at the net to grab their racquets he pressed his hand square between Sascha’s shoulder blades. Sascha purred, considered.

“Won’t people see us?”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Mischa, and shrugged. “Who says I’m not just getting makeup for Evgeniya?”

Even as Sascha’s heart twisted at her name he recognized that this was a victory. “Smart, Meesh.”

“Yeah, well. I am older than you, brat.” Mischa smiled. “Let’s hit. We won’t go hard today, I know you’re exhausted.”

As beautifully as Mischa had been playing in the Maldives, it seemed amateur compared to the level he was producing today. He was reading Sascha’s toss and pouncing on short balls and nailing angles so precisely it was like the path of his strikes were bewitched. Even at 3-2, when Sascha became overheated and removed his hoodie and Mischa could smell the glorious rich scent of his sweat as they stood together during changeovers at the net, he was not deterred. He won their practice set 6-4, didn’t face a break point, and when they came to the net to bump fists they looked at each other warily. It was no longer normal for Mischa to run over Sascha on the court and they both knew it.

“That was weird,” he said, as they were stretching at the net.

“I know,” said Sascha. “You’re playing amazing, Meesh. This is really good for your season.” 

“Thanks,” said Mischa, but there was disquiet in his eyes. “Do you think you’re just tired?”

“I’m definitely not peak,” said Sascha, but his sentence was left unfinished and Mischa didn’t push it because it was clear what they were both thinking: Alphas were by nature dominant over their bonded Omegas in competition, and since the Maldives Mischa had been more evenly matched with Sascha than he had been since Sascha was a teenager. The timing was too precise to be coincidental.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this has taken me so long, loves - hope you enjoy the update :)

Half an hour later – having not only successfully resisted that loud post-set urge to tackle each other to the court, but traveled to the nearest pharmacy in separate cars like the responsible adults they were – Mischa and Sascha were standing dubiously in front of a huge wall of beauty products, hoods up to avoid recognition, completely unsure of where to start.

Sascha leaned forward, squinted at the labels, sighed out loud.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know if I’m _porcelain_ or _fair_?”

Mischa snorted. “I’d say you’re neither, at the moment. You got quite the tan at the beach.”

“Good point.” Sascha reached up, fingered habitually at his throat; Mischa watched him with ill-concealed hunger. “Medium?” 

“Try it,” said Mischa hoarsely, and Sascha looked over at the tone of his voice, smirked. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say a word,” said Sascha, smug. “It’s gonna be dark in the restaurant, so surely I won’t have to get the tone exact.”

“No. You can wear a high collar and be liberal with your application,” said Mischa. “Just get like three kinds. We can do a practice run if you want.” 

“Where?”

“Uh,” said Mischa, and checked his phone. “I don’t know if Evi’s home. The car, if we have to.” 

“Ask her,” said Sascha, reckless. He didn’t look at Mischa as he selected three different shades of concealer from the rack in front of him, but his voice was cocksure and it made Mischa’s blood hot. “If she isn’t, let’s just go to yours. It’s two minutes from here.”

Mischa looked him in the eye and Sascha could see the vacillation there.

“Stop being afraid of me,” he said, swapping rapidly between Russian and German so they couldn’t be understood.

“I’m not afraid of you,” said Mischa in the same, flushing deeply. “I’m afraid of – losing control of myself.”

“Well, don’t be,” said Sascha. “Call your wife. If she’s not home, we’re going to yours. It’ll be half an hour. It’s okay.”

Mischa grinned like a wolf, instinctively. “Look at you trying to boss me around. Don’t forget who’s the Alpha here.”

He was joking, but Sascha went hot through his center for that; his biology responded to Mischa’s dominance in the most carnal of ways. “Couldn’t if I wanted to.”

“Good,” said Mischa softly, and the darkness in his eyes suggested that he had perhaps not been jesting as much as he’d tried to play off. “But I don’t hate it. Are you sure you want to go to mine?”

“Yes,” said Sascha. “I’m going to go pay for these. Let me know.” 

So Mischa, because he didn’t trust his voice not to betray him, texted his wife innocently to sleuth out what she was doing. As it turned out, she had just gotten home; she was taking a bath in preparation for dinner that night and wanted to know when he would be back. He gave a vague response of _soon, went to the store with Sash for something_ , and slid his phone back into his pocket.

“No go,” he said as Sascha met him at the entrance, query in his eyes. “She’s home.”

“Fuck.” Sascha swiped at his lower lip, clicked the unlock function on his car key. He had deliberately parked in the back of the pharmacy, in a faraway corner squeezed against the curb, so people would be discouraged from pulling in next to him. “The car it is, then. Come on.”

Fully cognizant of the fact that they were setting themselves up for failure, Mischa climbed into the passenger seat of Sascha’s Peugeot. He was painfully aware of the tinted windows, their sudden close proximity. In the confined space the fresh-exercise smell of them was intoxicating and he submerged his fingernails within the tender skin of his palms to keep himself sane.

After a moment he became conscious of Sascha’s deep searching eyes on him and he sighed aloud.

“What.”

“Nothing,” said Sascha, but his voice was all frisk. “You look uncomfortable, Meesh.”

“You think?” Mischa turned his head and their eyes met; Sascha was grinning. “It’s not exactly easy for me not to jump you right now." 

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” said Sascha loudly, “I’ve been hard off and on since I walked on the court with you earlier. The feeling is mutual. Besides, we already jumped each other once last night. The potentially awkward reunion kiss is out of the way.”

Mischa snorted. “It’s not _awkward_ I’m worried about right now.”

“Oh, I see,” said Sascha softly. He reached over, flicked at Mischa’s hood until it fell away from his face and settled behind his chocolate head. “You’re thinking about the fact that you could fuck me in the backseat.” 

As many times as they had been dirty with each other Mischa would never be used to it; he felt heavy blood draining to his nether regions and shivered. “ _Verdammt_ , Sascha.”

“I don’t know if it helps,” said Sascha, “but I’m thinking about it, too.”

Mischa let his eyes follow a slow specific trail of rainwater down the front window, twisted his mouth, tried to breathe without becoming drunk on the scent of his brother’s sweat. At last he said,

“It does and it doesn’t.” 

Sascha swallowed. Mischa’s aroma was thick and feral and Sascha could tell that his blood was laced with Alpha suppressants and as ineffective as they had been the night before they did even less to mask him when he was aroused and ripe from exercise. 

“Mischa.”

“Yes.” Mischa’s voice was raw.

“Will you let me smell you?”

Mischa closed his eyes.

“This is a bad idea, Sascha.”

“I know,” said Sascha, and his heart fully ceased to beat as he waited, waited, waited, because Mischa had said _we have to stop_ but then not only had he allowed continuation, he had _encouraged_ it, and the want in him was clear as the moon on a cloudless night. 

Slowly, deliberately, Mischa undid the zipper of his sweatshirt, slipped it over his shoulders so he was left in only a t-shirt, balled it up and tossed it into the backseat. It was clear what he was doing: offering himself, stating permission. Sascha felt like his chest was going to explode. He angled his torso over the divide between their seats so he could lower his face into Mischa’s neck, nose up under his armpit, _inhale_ him; and the power of it, the meaning, made him groan aloud.

Mischa let him drink his fill, hypnotized by Sascha’s fervor, the enthusiastic way he breathed him, like that first gulp of oxygen after a long submergence underwater. He was so, so, _so_ hard and instinctively he pushed down on his cock with the palm of his hand, surreptitious so maybe Sascha wouldn’t notice, but he did and his eyes when he drew back to look at Mischa’s were raven-black. His voice came out a purr.

“You smell like… _Alpha_.”

“And you smell like Omega,” growled Mischa in response, and wild they pushed their foreheads together hard, nuzzled at one another, lionlike. Sascha clamped his hand on Mischa’s thigh, squeezed; the implication of what he wanted could not have been more obvious. The air in the car was hot and still and around them the rain was blinding and it felt so much like the Maldives that they were both staggered. 

Through the sky lightning stung like a moray eel; Sascha turned his head, spooked, and Mischa outlined his face protectively with his long fingers.

“It’s all right, Sash.”

Sascha flashed a smile, looked back, and his face was tranquil. “I’m not scared. I’m with you. You make me feel safe.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” said Mischa gently, and he kissed Sascha’s salt-crusted forehead. “Try the makeup. We’re getting distracted.” 

“Impossible not to,” said Sascha quietly, but he reached into the bag at his feet anyway. Mischa smiled.

“Are you going to behave tonight?” 

Sascha knew what he meant. “Around Evi, you mean.”

“And Mum and Dad.”

“You have no faith in me,” said Sascha, cherubic, but his corresponding smirk was a slick tricky thing. “I’m an adult. I can behave.”

Mischa looked down at Sascha’s free hand, still resting high on his thigh. “You’re doing a terrible job of convincing me.”

“Hush.” Sascha smacked his thigh, withdrew his hand so he could squeeze concealer into his palm. “Do I put this on like sunscreen or what?”

“You are helpless,” said Mischa. Without thinking he reached over, took a dollop of makeup from Sascha’s hand, dabbed it carefully over the discolored mess of his brother’s throat. Sascha _mmm_ ed and Mischa shot him a look. 

“Not helpless,” said Sascha, guilt in his grin. “I just like when you touch me.”

“It feels right to touch you,” said Mischa, quiet. “It feels right to help you. It’s like I’m…I don’t know. _Providing_ for you.”

Sascha opened his eyes, folded his lips together. “Normal.”

Mischa swiped another layer of concealer over Sascha’s bruises, exhaled. “At this point, for us, it is.”

*

Neither of them felt sated in the slightest but they managed to curb themselves enough that nothing overtly untoward took place in Sascha’s car. It was still early in the day and they both went home to shower, relax before they had to walk into adversity; Sascha locked himself in the bathroom and turned his music as loud as it would go before standing under the barrage of water trying to cleanse himself of his brother’s scent. He desired it and needed it but every whiff he caught made him that much more desperate for what he could not have. He was confused, and he was sad, and he knew what was expected but he did not care. The thought of seeing Mischa with his wife that evening made his mouth parch and his stomach squirm in nauseated lurches. By not shunning him or refusing him Mischa was giving him hope and hope and hope but now that they had passed the first real test of behaving normally in front of Alex and Irina Evgeniya was the largest obstacle they had yet faced. Sascha didn’t know how he would react but he couldn’t imagine that it would be in any way positive; even before he and Mischa had slept together he hadn’t been Evi’s biggest fan.

Out of desperation when he got out of the shower he flopped stomach-down onto his bed and Facetimed Marcelo. He needed advice, had to talk about this with someone who understood, and while Mischa was near Evgeniya it couldn’t be him. They had to be careful about how they communicated in front of her because Mischa was bad at hiding his emotions, especially when it came to Sascha, and it would not do for her to be able to look over his shoulder while they were texting and glimpse anything that they had been discussing lately.

“Hi, Sash,” said Marcelo, when he picked up. “How is everything?”

“Hey,” said Sascha, and he made a face. “Well, so, remember the plan for Mischa to stay away while Mum and Dad are here?”

“Uh huh.” Marcelo’s face was calm; he glanced away from the screen for a moment and when he looked back he was holding an apple in one huge copper hand. “How long it take to fuck that up?”

Sascha burst out laughing. “How are you so chill about this? How did you know?”

“Sash, come on,” said Marcelo, rolling his eyes. “You and Mischa not able to stay away from each other, especially not now. I’m not an idiot. How long? What happen to you? You look good, by the way, you been fucking around?”

Sascha’s face flushed livid maroon. “No.”

“Sascha."

“ _No_. I mean, not really. We’ve like, made out, and uh, did some stuff over Facetime, but nothing super physical. Like, we haven’t touched each other more than kissing since he got back, I swear – shut the fuck up, Marcelo, this isn’t funny.”

For the longer Sascha had gone on, the harder Marcelo had laughed; the bright humor in his eyes was both humiliating and deeply, deeply welcome. At first, Marcelo had seemed appropriately concerned by the gravity of the situation; now, however, he seemed to be taking it all very well, and Sascha loved him for it. He made the impossibility of it all seem far less grave and Sascha was overwhelmingly grateful for his support.

“You _did some stuff over Facetime_? Are you guys fifteen?”

Sascha was trying his damnedest not to laugh but he failed horrendously. “What were we supposed to do? Fuck on the couch with my parents asleep upstairs? Wait for Evgeniya to leave and do it in their bed?” 

“Uh, the car,” said Marcelo seriously, and Sascha grimaced.

“We thought about it.” 

“ _Noss_ , I was _kidding_ ,” said Marcelo, but he was smirking. “You _supposed_ to not be doing anything at all. You promise me you not go to him, Sascha.”

“I didn’t,” said Sascha and when Marcelo gave him a look he raised his free hand in protest. “I didn’t! Mum has a weird thing about Ubers and she called to ask him to pick us up from the airport. We got in at the same time and I didn’t even know he was coming until I got to baggage claim.”

“Fuck,” said Marcelo, and he blew out a breath.

“Yeah, you can imagine how _that_ went.”

“I can,” said Marcelo, and his eyes were kind. “You guys okay? They question you?”

“No,” said Sascha, and his heart dropped at the notion. “We did well, all things considered. I almost cried, though, and so did he, and I have no idea how Mum and Dad didn’t notice the air change between us. And then when they went to bed, we…we couldn’t stop ourselves. I need him, Marcelo.” 

Marcelo’s eyes fell to the canvas of bruises streaking over Sascha’s throat. “And today? You see him today?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha. “Dad wanted us to hit, so we snuck away to the indoor courts before he could come with us. Then he went with me to the pharmacy so I could buy makeup to cover this shit up.”

He gestured vaguely to his neck; Marcelo laughed.

“You gotta be careful with those for sure.”

“Yeah, especially since we’re all going to dinner tonight,” said Sascha, and rolled his eyes. “Mum and Dad want to know all about Baros.”

“God. They think they do.” Marcelo took a massive bite of his apple, shook his head, chewed as he thought. “And Evgeniya? She coming?”

“Yeah, she’ll be there,” said Sascha. His voice was a minefield. “That’s going to be great.”

“Surprised your dad hasn’t brought Olya around,” said Marcelo, thoughtful. “Her family has place in Monte Carlo, no?”

Sascha groaned aloud. “Fuck. Yes. I didn’t even think about that.”

“She been texting you?”

“Not so much since the Maldives. I’ve been ignoring her a lot.” 

“But not totally.”

“I’m trying not to be a complete fuck,” said Sascha. “Our parents are such old friends, I’d never hear the end of it if I was a dick to her. But she hasn’t texted me since I’ve been back, so she might have gotten the message.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Marcelo. “Girls like her…they are insufferable. But that don’t matter now, Sash. What you gonna do tonight? What you gonna do if your dad bring Olya around and Mischa is with you? He’s gonna rip her head off.” 

Sascha’s stomach went warm, all glow for the thought of Mischa’s territorial nature. “Yeah, he will.” 

Marcelo studied his face. “You like that idea.”

“Yes,” said Sascha without thinking, “I do. Fuck, I really do. What does that mean?”

“It mean you like the thought of your Alpha claiming his territory,” said Marcelo grimly, and Sascha’s heart skittered, catastrophic in its cage of bones.

“He’s already claimed it,” he said, and his voice was a mutter. Automatically his fingers went to trail over the lines of his throat, push on his bruises to remind himself who had left them there, and Marcelo watched him with a stoic expression veiling his face.

“Are you gonna go to doctor this week?”

“If Mum makes me,” said Sascha, and he sniffed, ran a hand under his nose. “But honestly, Marcelo, it’s like you said. I don’t really think I, you know. Need to.”

Marcelo bit his lower lip, finished the last of his apple, looked away before he answered.

“I don’t think you do, either.”

This was the most seriously that Sascha had entertained the thought of a bond without immediately pushing it away; he sighed, raked his dripping curls back from his forehead, and Marcelo’s eyes went soft.

“You talk about this with him?”

“Uh,” said Sascha, and one skeletal shoulder went up, down. “Yes and no. He’s definitely in denial. I mean, I am too. And it hasn’t been proven for sure yet, so.” 

“Of course,” said Marcelo, but his tone was not encouraging. “See how tonight goes, see how you do over next few days. Then we go from there, okay?”

“Okay.” Sascha loved that he said _we_ not _you_. “What am I going to do about tonight? We’ve already planned that we’re going to sit together because it would look weird as fuck if we don’t. But I don’t know how to not touch him all the time.”

“You do okay when you see Mum and Dad Zverev at airport, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“See. You already get through something like this once. It will be okay.” Marcelo tilted his head. “You both taking your meds?”

“Mmhmm. Extra.”

“They help at all?”

Sascha pulled a face. “Not really. He smells like…Alpha. It’s just that now, I can tell when he’s got suppressants in his blood. My hormones don’t go as crazy around him, but I don’t know if that’s because I’m not in heat anymore, or what. The point is, you know, when he took suppressants before Baros, it was different.”

“Different how?” 

“Like…I don’t know.” Sascha squinted, trying to articulate something that he could not describe. “Like his smell was still there, but disguised. Less intense. Now I recognize his smell as _Alpha on suppressants_ instead of just _really faint Alpha scent_.”

“Ah,” said Marcelo. “I get it. After me and Lukasz bond, I start to recognize his scent more easily. He is not muted for me anymore. Suppressants help keep constant urge to mate in check, but I still know his scent, and it still call to me. Same for him with me. With you, when you not in heat and on your meds, I can’t smell you unless you sweaty. Like that with other Omegas I know, too. Because we don’t have bond.”

Sascha groaned. “ _Scheiße_.”

“Uh huh.” Marcelo’s twisted his mouth, thinking. “You said you guys hit today?”

“Yeah.”

“You play a match?”

“A set.” Sascha knew where Marcelo’s line of questioning would lead.

“Who win?”

“Mischa,” said Sascha, softly. “He beat me 6-4. He played out of his mind.”

Marcelo swore.

“You know why, don’t you, Sash.”

“Because Omegas are submissive to their Alphas in competition,” said Sascha robotically, and Marcelo gave a short, abrupt nod.

“Exactly. He hasn’t been beating you steadily since you were eighteen. You getting better, more consistent, you number three in the world. He shouldn’t be able to play _out of his mind_ against you.”

“I know that, Marcelo,” said Sascha, quiet, and he picked under his thumbnail, anxious. “He knows it, too. I saw it in his face. What happens if we play each other in a tournament? If he beats me…”

“Hush,” said Marcelo, “we cross that bridge when we come to it. Like I say, you take this one day at a time. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Sascha. He puffed out a huge quelling breath. “I wish you and Lukasz were here. You always know how to ease the tension.”

Marcelo flashed a massive grin. “We do what we can. Your dad just think Lukasz trying to speak Russian is hilarious and we go from there.”

“Yeah, but it makes him laugh,” said Sascha. His phone buzzed; Mischa was texting him, and he swiped the notification up with a sudden thrill scorching his core. “Will you guys be with us for New Year’s?”

“Of course,” said Marcelo. “You know we never miss party shenanigans with our favorite family. Plus I want to go to Australia, like, tomorrow. We come to Hopman Cup, we take care of any awkwardness, everything fine. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Sascha, and one corner of his mouth quirked up, little comma of a smile. “We’d be fucked without you, man. Thank you.”

“You got it,” said Marcelo, and he smiled. “You do the same for us. You not worry. No matter what, I am here. Lukasz will be too, if you want.”

Sascha read between his lines: _if things progress, if there’s a bond, if you need a place to go_. Marcelo was saying that the fact that Sascha was most likely soul-bonded with his elder brother did not change their friendship, or the affection they had for each other, or anything at all. He was saying that he was there for Sascha and Mischa regardless of the circumstances and Sascha felt his chest pooling with gratitude.

“Marcelo…” 

“I know,” said Marcelo, waving a hand. “Love you, too, baby Zverev. Now you go do something to get your mind off tonight, okay? Call Mischa, make a plan, figure yourselves out. It not going to be easy.”

*

To wait out the rain – and recuperate after such extensive traveling – Alex, Irina, and Sascha spent the day relaxing around the house, watching stupid movies and playing board games. After Baros Sascha was sick of Scrabble but he kept his face straight throughout and when his parents suggested a turn in the hot tub he pawned them off, saying he was still recovering from his illness and needed a nap.

“Was tennis okay?” Irina pressed a hand to Sascha’s forehead, tested him for temperature. “Maybe you shouldn’t have played?”

 “Uh, it was fine,” said Sascha. “I was really tired.” 

Alex came up behind her, watching his youngest son, concern narrowing his eyes. “How did you do?”

“Not amazing,” said Sascha carelessly. “Mischa is playing out of his mind right now. He was in Baros, too. He beat me 6-4 in a set.”

Alex and Irina raised their eyebrows simultaneously; Sascha realized the gravity of what he had said and shook his head, backpedaling.

“He’s playing incredible, guys. This is really good. His next season is going to be on fire if he keeps this up.”

Alex was the first to recover.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, and the happiness on his face was genuine. “He _has_ been working really hard. If he could get back to peak next season it would be wonderful.”

“I think he will,” said Irina, smiling. “But Sash, you need to rest. No court time for a few days, okay? Don’t forget about that, Alex.”

Alex and Sascha both laughed; Alex raised his hands in surrender. “No complaints from me.”

After multiple attempts, Sascha managed to produce a combination of concealer that effectively masked the ugly discoloration of his throat. To triple check himself he sent worried Snapchats to both Mischa and Marcelo and they both replied that his skin looked – if a bit shiny – normal, and the slight sheen of the makeup would be relatively simple to hide in the dim light of a dinner restaurant. Over an oxford fastened to the top button he wore a sweater that settled high on his throat and when he looked himself in the eye in the mirror he tried to project the careless assurance that came to him so naturally on court. Somehow, miraculously, Alex and Irina remained clueless, and their blissful ignorance could continue only if he and Mischa kept it together.

 _Remember to breathe_ , from Marcelo, and Sascha repeated it to himself like a Hail Mary as he wandered down into the living room to wait for his parents.

To no one’s shock, Irina had suggested Angelo’s; she had made a reservation for eight PM and they were out of the house by seven forty-five. Sascha drove, texted Mischa that they were leaving so neither of them would be traumatized again by the other’s unexpected presence, and by the time they pulled into the parking lot Mischa had texted him back: _we’re here. I’m so fucking nervous again._

Sascha felt his chest soar; Mischa had spent the afternoon acting as a human Zen garden for him, had not given a single indicator that he was worried, and to know the truth of his brother’s emotion bolstered him immensely. If they were both nervous, they were in it together. If they were both rooted within the same mindset, however difficult, they could play it off. He was already dreaming of the alcohol he would consume, of the warm fingers of confidence it would stroke through his bloodstream, and in a shadowy part of his mind he understood that intoxication was unwise but he didn’t care. His hands were trembling when he slammed the car door and he didn’t know how else to still them.

 _Me too_ , he sent back. _Suppressants and deodorant, don’t let us down.  
_

_We can do this, Sash. Remember to be nice._

_Like I would ever not._

_You’re such a fucking liar._

Sascha grinned helplessly at his phone, wandered through the entrance into the restaurant behind Alex and Irina, and when he looked up he saw Mischa standing with Evgeniya by the hostess desk. As though Mischa could intuit his presence he glanced up into Sascha’s huge eyes and the heat that crossed the air between them was as intense as a blowtorch flame. In his peripherals he was aware of Alex and Irina going to Evgeniya to kiss her hello but he could not look away from Mischa’s face. It was clear that they were going to have to remind themselves to focus elsewhere.

He blinked himself out of it, forced one step forward, two. When he reached his family Evgeniya greeted him with a smile and because he was so pleased to see Mischa he was able to smile easily back. Carryover emotion would be useful here.

“Sascha,” she said, and leaned up to kiss his cheek; he kissed at the air by her face, an automatic response. “You look well. Mischa said you’d been sick?”

“I – yeah,” said Sascha, his eyes darting up to Mischa’s before returning to settle on his sister-in-law’s worried face. They’d had the same thought process even without expressly communicating it to one another: the only way to mask Sascha’s low color, the new starkness of his collarbones, was to invent an illness. “I had a little bit of a stomach thing on my last night in Berlin. I’m better now, I think. How are you?”

“Good. Glad you guys are back,” said Evgeniya, and her authenticity made Sascha’s heart twist. On one level he was furious that she dared exist, that she had constant unfettered access to the object of his affection, but on another, more rational level, he felt horrible, shameful. She had never asked to marry a man who was ruined for his own brother.

Alex said, “Shall we sit?” So Irina took Evgeniya’s arm and the group followed the hostess to a large table in the very back of the restaurant. Mischa trailed Sascha at the back of the party and the proximity of him made Sascha’s palms sweat. Before anyone could see Mischa pressed a huge firm hand to the small of Sascha’s back and the hackles all over his body raised for the touch.

As Mischa had promised he flopped confidently into the chair beside Sascha and after they had situated he pasted his leg hot against Sascha’s own. Like he’d been branded Sascha sat forward in his seat, hyperaware; this was going to be monstrously difficult. He leaned sideways into Mischa.

“Do you want to split a bottle of wine?”

“Yes,” said Mischa immediately. “Red or white?”

“Red.” 

“Good,” said Mischa, “me too. I’ll pick something good.”

This was traditional; Mischa was the wine connoisseur of the family, and he knew exactly what to order to fit each and every one of their palates. He’d come by it naturally; Irina was an admirable cook, quite adept at matching flavor profiles, and where Sascha lacked in culinary skills Mischa excelled at them. He liked to joke that although Sascha had grown to be the better tennis player he would always have him beat in the kitchen, and it was true.

Beneath the table Sascha’s knee was ricocheting furiously up and down and instinctively Mischa squeezed one hand around Sascha’s mid thigh to calm him. 

Conversation as they browsed their menus was light and meaningless. Irina asked Evgeniya about current affairs with her job and Sascha and Mischa were more than happy to allow her to take center stage for as long as the topic could be drawn out. Mischa had deliberately positioned himself between Sascha and Evgeniya; there was enough tension pouring constantly from his little brother’s body as it was without her being in his constant line of sight. Mischa was unsure as to whether or not the introduction of alcohol into this already precarious situation was wise, but he kept having to remind himself that he and Sascha were the only people at this table who knew what had really happened in Baros, and surely half a bottle of wine with a heavy meal wouldn’t cause them to become so outrageously unrestrained with each other that they would give themselves away. As Sascha made his steady way through his first glass of wine Mischa watched his shoulders ease slowly and considerably; when Alex brought up Baros he smiled and it was anything but false. 

“Have they showed you any pictures yet?” Evgeniya was grinning; she slipped her hand into Mischa’s and he forced himself not to pull it away, act normal. The hasty drink of wine he swallowed settled acidic in his empty stomach.

“No,” said Irina, mock insulted. “We’ve been deprived of vicariously enjoying our sons’ vacation.”

Mischa laughed, pulled his phone out of his back pocket, did a brief frantic mental check of whether or not there was anything incriminating in his camera roll before deciding that no, it was fine, there was nothing. He handed it open to the first photo they’d taken to his mother, who leaned over to Alex to show him as well.

“We stayed in literal paradise,” said Sascha, dreams fleeing across his face. “Everything on that island looked like a calendar photo. Hammock over the water, tiki huts, drinks with little plastic umbrellas...” 

“It was unbelievable,” said Mischa in agreement. “And no one was there, so no one bothered us. Which I’m used to, of course, but even Sash never got approached by a screaming fangirl.”

Sascha went as red as his wine; publicly, he was overconfident and preening and certain of himself, but his family knew what it cost him to keep up that act. “Shut up, Meesh.”

Mischa looked sideways at him, tongue poked out between his teeth, and the depth of Sascha’s eyes nearly ended him. He quirked an eyebrow and smirked and Sascha’s flush intensified; the _make me_ in Mischa’s face was as loud as though he’d spoken.

“These pictures are fantastic, Mischa,” said Irina, all pride, fondness in every syllable. “You guys look so happy.” 

“Don’t they?” Evgeniya was beaming. “That’s exactly what I said. You guys are adorable.” She pinched Mischa’s cheek affectionately and beside him Sascha stiffened, chugged a massive swig of wine.

“We try,” said Mischa, attempting joviality, but there was no part of him that was not centered around Sascha, his vacillating mood, the faint bitter scent that was now emanating from him in tiny waves. Something new, something Mischa had not scented on him before, and with certainty he could say what it was. Jealousy. “There wasn’t much to be upset about in a place like that, even when the storm came.”

Irina shook her head. “You didn’t go stir-crazy being stuck inside like that?”

Sascha’s answering grin was tricky. “Nah. We found ways to entertain ourselves.”

“Like what?” From Alex, who was still distracted navigating Mischa’s camera roll. Mischa dug his fingers into Sascha’s thigh.

“Scrabble,” he said, at the same time Sascha said, “blanket forts.”

They looked at each other, smirked.

“Well, a little of both,” said Mischa. “Building blanket forts helped stave off the monotony of eating peanut butter and banana sandwiches multiple times a day. Plus it was something we could do in the dark. It looked like night all the time for about five days.”

“You guys had flashlights, surely,” said Irina, glancing up from Mischa’s phone.

“Oh, of course,” said Sascha. He was still thinking of _something we could do in the dark_ and he tried not to let it show all over his face. “We did all right. It was humid, though, and the shower water was freezing.”

He reached for the bottle of wine, poured liberally into both his and Mischa’s glasses. Mischa could see the danger ahead but he was full throttle because without the wine he understood that they could not fully relax, especially not sensitive, volatile Sascha, who flinched marginally every time Evgeniya moved. 

He let Sascha pour.

Without any incident they both continued to field questions about their extended vacation; Mischa kept his fingers laced in his wife’s but when he was not holding his wine glass with his free hand it was perched firmly on Sascha’s leg under concealment of the tablecloth, grounding him. Halfway through dinner, over the topic of Baros and on to better and brighter things, Mischa was starting to feel like things might actually be okay. Then Evgeniya asked if Alex and Irina had any concrete plans for the rest of the week.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Alex, with a little mysterious smile. “We’ll probably go sightseeing tomorrow, maybe see some friends while we’re in town. We’re pretty open to suggestions, if you two have anything you want to do?” 

Mischa felt his spine stiffen. He knew the look on his father’s face all too well; it was the one that appeared every time he thought he was being sneaky.

Sascha had the same thought process. “Friends like who?”

“Oh, just some people we’ve known for a while,” said Alex cheerfully. “The Sharypovs. They’re in Monte Carlo for the season, and Denis has been telling me that Olya is always asking about you, Sash. I’m sure she’d love to see you.”

Sascha was not drunk enough to lose control, but the glitch in his voice when he spoke was – at least to Mischa – unmistakable.

“So you just thought we’d all hang out with them, huh? Coincidence?”

“Well, no, not a total coincidence,” said Alex. His face was innocent and Mischa for a split second pitied his father: of course he couldn’t understand the reason for the discontentment seething from his sons’ pores, couldn’t see how their expressions changed, their postures straightened at the mention of Olya. “They’re traditionally here for winter, too, you know that. We always get together when we have a chance.”

“Yeah, that seems to be happening a lot more than usual lately,” said Mischa without thinking, spurred by the crimson sheet of rage that seemed to have overtaken his mind at the thought of Olya, and Sascha under the table smacked his hand down on Mischa’s knee. Mischa covered the abrupt sound with a cough and attempted to rearrange his facial features into neutrality before he spoke again. “Dad, come on, we all know you’re trying to set Sash up with Olya. Don’t even pretend this is innocent.”

“Well?” Alex was smiling; he was so oblivious it was painful. “What’s wrong with that? She’s a very beautiful girl, she plays tennis, she’s an Alpha...”

“Traditionally, Dad,” said Sascha calmly, “Omega get to pick their Alphas for themselves. Not through any kind of matchmaking system set up by their parents.”

“What, you don’t think you’d pick her? You’ve barely spent any time together in the last few years,” said Alex, forever the optimist. “You never know what could happen.” 

“Well, I can tell you what _won’t_ happen,” said Sascha, swallowing the last of his wine, “a bond. I just went through a heat cycle, with _Marcelo_. She’s going to have to wait at least a year until she gets another shot at that target.”

Both Mischa and Alex opened their mouths to respond, but Irina was too quick for them both.

“That’s enough,” she said firmly. “Alex, leave Sascha alone. As much as we all know it pains you, you don’t get to pick his mate for him. Mischa and Evgeniya, we’d love to have you join us for the rest of the week, if you’re interested.” 

“Sure. I don’t think we have much going on until Mischa’s season starts again,” said Evgeniya. She had been regarding the exchange between father and sons with guarded amusement in her eyes, and now she squeezed Mischa’s hand, brought their arms up between them so she could rest her chin on their clasped fingers.

Sascha saw her do it. Mischa turned to him in time to watch the hurt spatter across his eyes, and then Sascha’s entire face shut down like a slammed cage door. He coughed into his napkin, smiled wanly at his mother, stood up so Mischa’s hand fell hard from his leg.

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Sash, are you okay?” Irina’s eyes were worried. “You look pale again.”

“I’m actually still feeling kind of sick,” said Sascha, his voice thin. He was so statuesque Mischa had to crane his neck back to look at him but at the moment he was nothing if not porcelain. “I’ll be right back.”

Stricken, upended, Mischa watched him go; when he turned to look back at his parents their eyes were still tracking Sascha down the hallway. When Irina finally glanced away she met his gaze and bit her lip and the concern in her face wrecked him.

“He was fine in Baros,” he said helplessly. “And when I left him in Berlin.”

“Maybe he has the flu,” said Irina. “Go check on him, please?”

Mischa had already been in the process of concocting an excuse to follow him; he dropped Evgeniya’s hand and tried not to take off at a full Olympic sprint along the hallway to the restroom. When he barged through the doorway he found Sascha bent over at the sink hurling cold water on his face; he went to stand behind him and when Sascha sensed him he looked up and inhaled sharply, darkness in his eyes. 

“What is it, Sash? Dad talking about Olya or Evgeniya holding my hand?”

Sascha’s face was as cloudy as the storm-sky they’d left behind in the Maldives. 

“Both. Mostly her.” 

“I thought so,” said Mischa heavily. “I can smell it on you. The jealousy.”

“I can smell it on you too,” said Sascha. “As soon as you even _thought_ Dad was talking about Olya I got attacked with it. I can’t really describe it, but Mischa, it’s - bitter.”

Habitually Mischa reached out and kneaded the scruff of Sascha’s neck with his long fingers. Sascha closed his eyes.

“Yours is too,” said Mischa softly. “Very bitter.”

In the mirror they looked at each other, steady, frightened.

“I’m not sick,” said Sascha, low. “I just can’t stand it. I can’t stand to be around her all over you.” 

“I know, Sash,” said Mischa. His eyes were helpless. “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” said Sascha miserably. “You can’t do anything, because if you stop touching her, or holding her hand, she’ll know something is wrong. They all will.”

“There must be something to make it easier on you,” said Mischa, pleading. “Does it help that I’m touching you, too? Like the hand on your knee?”

Sascha considered.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “and none of this is as bad as it feels when you’re fucking her, not by half. But Mischa, you don’t know, it’s – it’s so, so painful to see you with someone – else.”

At the last second he’d stopped himself from saying _someone who isn’t me_ but they both knew what he meant. Mischa’s face was crumpling.

“I did this to you,” he said, and Sascha heard blatant tears edging his voice. He stood up, turned around, pulled Mischa in by the hips. Rubbed his forehead hard across Mischa’s own. 

“I _asked you_ to do this to me,” he said softly. “You tried to stop yourself, Mischa. You held out longer than I thought was humanly possible. I’m the one who didn’t bring extra meds to the island. This is my fault.”

Mischa was shaking his head.

“Shut up,” he said. “Shut up, Sascha. It’s both of us. It’s not your fault, and it’s not mine. It just happened. All of this is fucked up, but don’t ever say that it’s your fault.”

Sascha swallowed.

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” said Mischa, rough. His hands around Sascha’s biceps were firm, hot-palmed and certain. “Get through tonight and go from there. But I can’t go with you guys tomorrow. If Olya makes one move towards you I’ll destroy her.”

Without his permission Sascha’s face glowed. “You will, huh.”

Mischa laughed aloud at the sudden change in his expression. “Stop it. You’re not supposed to be happy about that.”

“You’re telling me, but I am,” said Sascha. There was no guilt in his voice, but his eyes were pensive. “I can get through tonight if you hold my hand under the table. We’ll be able to get away with it. What reason do they have to suspect us?”

“Right now? None,” said Mischa. “If we keep being weird and possessive around each other, though, it won’t last. Dad sees everything.” 

“He should have been a fucking government agent or a spy or something,” grumbled Sascha, and Mischa grinned. “Whatever. At least I’m eating.”

“You’re doing well, Sash,” said Mischa gently. “Are you okay? Can you go back out there, or do you need a bit more time?”

“No, I can do it,” said Sascha. He bit his lower lip, fluffed his fringe out of his eyes with a well-placed huff of breath. Mischa felt the remnant of air whoosh across his face and stilled. “Thanks for coming after me.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” said Mischa, tender. “Taking care of you is my priority.”

It was true, it had always been true, it was just that now there was an extra element to that truth. Sascha looked into Mischa’s eyes and understanding passed between them but they both knew that the other could not speak it aloud. There was no other way to approach this but to take it second by second, and they would do it together.

Sascha kissed Mischa chastely on the lips, once. Mischa felt like his entire body had suddenly become immune to gravity. The sigh that forced up from his chest was shaky and reflexive.

“Let’s go,” said Sascha quietly, so with their fingers lacing and unlacing between them they walked to the exit, fortified, prepared. Before Sascha pushed through the door Mischa gave his hand a squeeze and dropped it and then they were on the other side and masked and back to living in fear. Of discovery, of inability to maintain control, of slipping.

It was doing them no good to live in the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow is going to be fun, huh? ;) The tension mounts...


	14. Chapter 14

The rest of the dinner passed without incident; Sascha had been invigorated by Mischa’s closeness, his obvious devotion, and in answer to Sascha’s request Mischa kept their fingers deadlocked on his knee beneath the tablecloth, palms fastened together so both of their hands began to sweat within minutes. It was a lifeline and Sascha’s color was high for the remainder of the evening, stomach settled, head calm. He had never been more grateful for the fact that he was a righty and Mischa a lefty.

There was no more talk of Olya; no more not-so-subtle matchmaking tactics. It was merely a red herring; both Mischa and Sascha knew that this did not mean that Alex’s so-called tentative plans would be cancelled the next day. 

In bed that evening Evgeniya kissed Mischa long and slow on the mouth and he knew that she was trying to initiate something; he kissed her back for a moment before he pulled away, made a face. She raised her head, opened her eyes, gazed at him with concern.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he said, feigning ignorance. “My stomach doesn’t feel amazing.”

“Oh, babe.” Evgeniya brushed Mischa’s hair from his eyes, laid the back of her hand across his forehead; he was reminded strongly of Irina. “You don’t feel hot. Maybe you’re catching what Sash has.”

“God,” said Mischa with a convincing groan, “I hope not.”

“Do you want to take anything for it?” Evgeniya was already half out of bed. 

“No,” said Mischa, flopping dramatically back against his pillow. “No, I think I just want to try to sleep it off. If I need anything I’ll get up in the middle of the night, it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah,” said Mischa. He smiled at her, made it wan, half-hearted, and the lack of emotion wasn’t hard to fake. “Sleep is the best medicine. I’ll be fine. Sorry, Ev, I wish I felt better.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Evgeniya firmly. She kissed his forehead and finally, finally guilt crashed over him like a burst of wind; he’d been wondering if he had lost his capacity to feel wrong for what he and Sascha were doing, and it wasn’t that he _did_ , at least not for that. It was for the fact that Evgeniya loved him unconditionally and he had taken that love, turned it around, and violated every part of it. He closed his eyes, cringed from himself.

“I still feel bad. It’s early.”

“Hush. Sleep. If you don’t feel well tomorrow we can stay home.”

“I kind of want to anyway,” said Mischa. “It’s annoying to watch Dad push Olya all over Sascha."

She snorted. “Sascha just needs to be straight up with her. Tell her he isn’t into it. You know?” 

“He’s definitely been telling her,” said Mischa. “Just not verbally, I don’t think. She was texting him all the time during the first few days of our vacation, and he was answering in like a one to four ratio. Last he told me it sounded like she was backing off.”

“She won’t if Alex keeps trying to bring them together,” said Evgeniya. “It doesn’t matter that Sash just had his heat if she wants to lock him down. She’s gonna keep trying until he tells her no, and even then it might take a few tries. She seems really – er – determined.”

“Yeah. She’s insufferable.” Mischa stretched, rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Sash is too soft with her.”

“Really.” Evgeniya tilted her head. “You think some part of him secretly likes her?” 

Mischa’s chest seized at the thought. “No way. He shits on her almost as much as I do. Besides, I mean...he really prefers guys.”

“Why doesn’t he just tell your dad the truth, then?” Evgeniya’s eyes were sharp and Mischa didn’t like it. “I mean, honestly, you’d think he would already know, but it seems to me like this is something he needs to be spelled out for him.” 

“Dad doesn’t want to believe it,” said Mischa immediately, and it was the truth. Alex would never explicitly say that he didn’t approve of Sascha mating with Marcelo, but he was not shy about expressing his wishes for a horde of grandchildren; he had lately been making more and more pointed comments to both Mischa and Evgeniya and his transparency was laughable. “He wants lots of grandchildren. From both of us.”

Evgeniya snorted. “Trust me, I’m aware.”

“It’s ridiculous,” said Mischa, and he blew out a breath. “Sorry my dad’s such a weirdass about this stuff. It’s like he forgets that adoption is a thing.”

“It’s okay. I knew what I was getting into when I married you,” said Evgeniya, and she smiled.

Long after Evgeniya fell asleep Mischa was awake staring at the ceiling, wishing for the stars, blind from his worry. The situation as it stood was bad enough without Alex being wired the way that he was: because of the constant strain of tour life, he and Irina had only had two children, but they had both wanted more, and Mischa knew that most of the reason he was so vocal about wanting grandbabies was because his hectic lifestyle had denied him the option of having his own massive family. He was tired of listening to Alex harp about Olya and he was tired of the subtle distaste that crept into his father’s face whenever Marcelo’s name was mentioned. Nothing about this precarious dance they were all doing spoke of longevity and everything felt like a precipice and he was standing at the edge of a snowcapped mountaintop, parachute-less, stranded.

He rolled over, checked his phone; it was one seventeen. On impulse, without allowing himself to think about it, he texted Sascha.

_You awake?_

Not even a moment later Sascha replied.

_What am I, your booty call?  
_

_Do you want to be?  
_

_You’re asking me that after letting your wife hang all over you at dinner tonight?_

Mischa’s stomach plunged unpleasantly; he and Evgeniya had barely touched and still Sascha had been as thoroughly affected as though he’d walked in on them having sex. _Sash, I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do._

_There’s not much you can do. Like you said in the bathroom._

_I’m working on it. No one saw your bruises?  
_

_No. I went to bed almost as soon as we got home. Apparently we’re getting up early for brunch tomorrow. Are you coming?_

Mischa’s heartbeat was not steady; Sascha seemed angry, sad, short, and he didn’t know how to fix it, what they were even doing. _Will she be there?_

 _Your guess is as good as mine_.

Mischa took a deep breath and then he typed out the thing he’d wanted to tell Sascha since it had happened.

_I told Evgeniya no tonight._

Sascha, lying half under his huge plush comforter dull-eyed and throbbing at his bruises, Lövik curled under his arm, sat up in bed.

_What do you mean?_

_I mean she tried to start something and I told her I felt sick and didn’t want to._

Sascha ran a hand back through his hair, bit his lip. Beside him Lövik whined and he pulled him into his lap, scratched his ears until he was wagging his tail again.

_Did you say you thought you might be catching what I had?_

_I didn’t have to. She suggested it._

Sascha typed out three full responses before he finally pressed send.

 _Thank you, Mischa_.

_Don’t thank me. You shouldn’t be dealing with this in the first place._

Sascha knew he was right, but he didn’t care; he would have suffered through anything to be near Mischa, even with Evgeniya pasted to his side. He knew this appraisal of her was unfair; as far as couples went, she and Mischa were completely inoffensive. Their PDA was more or less nonexistent, they didn’t call each other disgusting pet names or take it upon themselves to make out in public, but none of that mattered to Sascha. Evgeniya was in the immediate way of the thing that Sascha wanted most in this world, and he could not forget it. When he looked at her, saw the way she constantly leaned reached _moved_ for Mischa, his chest ached like a torn scar. Mischa was not hers to take; Mischa was not hers to do with as she pleased, and yet she did anyway. 

Sascha couldn’t forgive her for claiming the one person who had belonged to him, in one way or another, since he’d been _born_. 

*

The Sharypovs were not, as it turned out, present for brunch, and neither did they join for the beach stroll that Irina insisted upon taking after said brunch. Half a day passed without a single mention of their potentially imminent arrival; Sascha was beginning to hope that his father might be going easy on him after the displeasure he had publicized at the mention of Olya’s name. Mischa and Evgeniya were not along for the day’s adventures; Mischa had called that morning to say that he was feeling “under the weather” and Irina had exclaimed over him, insisted that he rest, that he was probably suffering from the same bug that had recently plagued Sascha.

 _She has no idea how true that is_ , Mischa texted Sascha as soon as she said it, and Sascha covered his face with his hand to hide the smile there.

Steadily, consistently, Mischa had kept in touch with Sascha all day. He wanted to know what they were doing, what Sascha had eaten, how much. If he was drinking water, if he was feeling all right, if, if, if.

 _Mischa, I’m fine_ , Sascha replied, exasperated, but he was smiling for his brother’s concern, and besides his answer wasn’t entirely honest. As was becoming customary he hadn’t slept much the evening before and he’d had to use a bit of his new concealer to fix the murky areas under his eyes lest Irina become too curious.

Now they were at the marketplace, sipping coffees and wandering around without a destination in mind. When Alex’s phone rang Sascha knew immediately who it was and Irina caught him as he rolled his eyes; she shot him a knowing, amused look. 

“What?” Sascha raised his shoulders as Alex walked away to talk, presumably to Denis. “I don’t want her to come. Sorry.”

“I know you don’t, sweetheart,” said Irina, and she pushed his hair back from his forehead, cupped his cheek fondly. “Your dad gets these crazy ideas in his head and runs with them sometimes. Have you told Olya you aren’t interested in her?” 

“I basically ghosted her in the Maldives,” said Sascha, rush of warm in his heart for his mother’s kindness, her understanding. “I don’t think she really cares, Mum. She wants people to know she knows me. She’s in it for the fame.”

“I’m surprised she’s turned out like this,” said Irina, mild crease of distaste between her eyebrows. “She was such a quiet girl. I didn’t peg her to be the kind of person who wanted all of the attention that would come with being with you.”

Sascha flushed, took a huge drink of coffee. “Mum, stop, I’m not – I’m just me.” 

“Yeah, uh huh, _just me_ , you don’t act like that in the public eye, do you.” Irina leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, grinning. “If you get too annoyed, just say you’re sick again and get out of here. I’ll back you up.”

“Mum, you’re the coolest,” said Sascha on a rush of gratitude. “Dad just doesn’t get that I’m not into her.”

“Your father,” said Irina primly, raising an eyebrow in her husband’s direction. “Can be a stubborn ass sometimes. He gets excited about matchmaking, but his only real requirements are that the person he’s trying to set you up with be close to your age and an Alpha. Not too much to go off of, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, and he only picks girls,” muttered Sascha, and Irina’s face softened.

“A ridiculous prerequisite,” she said, “when it’s obvious that you like men.” 

Sascha looked at her; they had never spoken about his sexual preferences before, and he had not known how Irina might feel about it, but now not only was she clarifying, she was stating her support. She smiled at him. 

“It’s really too bad that Marcelo is already bonded,” she said, cheerfully. “You two would make such a lovely couple.”

“Thanks, Mum,” muttered Sascha, and impulsively he hugged her, blinked at the quick wetness that pooled in his eyes, because if she knew who he was likely _really_ bonded to she’d be pushing him away like he was a plague. “You really are the coolest. I mean it.”

“I know,” said Irina, shrugging. “Now come on. Let’s go deal with this mess together.”

As Sascha had suspected they would the instant he’d heard his father’s phone ring, the Sharypovs showed up ten minutes later: Denis, Ekaterina, and Olya, mother and daughter dark and tall, father shockingly blonde and short, stocky as an ox. Sascha was in the middle of texting Mischa when Olya came over to him and slipped her arm immediately through his.

“Hey, you,” she said, and giggled. “Where have you been? We haven’t talked in _ages_.”

Alex and Denis were doing that laughably obvious thing where they were both avidly watching and trying not to let on that they were watching: glancing covertly over at Sascha and Olya as they greeted each other, glimmer at the eyes, greedy gleeful. Sascha wondered briefly and cruelly if Denis was pushing Olya onto Sascha as much as Alex was pushing Olya onto him: _try it, you might like it_. His stomach wrenched with nausea.

“Hey,” he said, and fought the urge to throw her off; despite his inclination to be unkind in the face of her obvious desperation his mother had taught him better than that. “I know, I was barely on my phone in the Maldives and then went to Berlin right after to meet up with Marcelo. You know how it goes.”

“It’s all right,” she said, all sweet. “I’m just glad I get to see you now.”

Further greetings were exchanged; Denis suggested that they hang out in the marketplace for a bit longer and then go to the aquarium as a backup, as the sky was beginning to darken. Sascha looked up and scowled. He was done with rain.

*

For as long as they could remain outside they explored the marketplace; Sascha stayed as near to Irina as he could and gave polite but uninterested responses to everything Olya threw at him. After thirty minutes he’d lost track of how many times she had taken her phone out to publish a new story to Instagram. He tried to avoid the camera as much as possible, but she wouldn’t let him, and both Alex and Denis were encouraging her: laughing in the direct line of her shot, waving into the lens. Sascha was already sick of all of them.

It was an hour before he could text Mischa back. By then the sky had once again torn in half; Sascha was drowning in memories of merciless rain and earthshaking rumbles of thunder, Mischa’s tongue in his ear. With Olya stuck like a paste to his side he could not properly conceal his phone screen and when they arrived at the aquarium he finally pulled away for half a second; he managed to type out _she won’t leave me alone_ before she was on him again.

“What are you doing later? Will you guys come to our place for dinner?”

“Uh,” said Sascha, blinking at her, habitually yanking the collar of his hood up. Under the fresh thick layer of concealer he’d applied with haste that morning his bruises ached like a new scar. “I have no idea. Dad has been planning all of this. I didn’t even know you guys were coming until last night.”

“I know.” Olya was watching their parents, standing off in the corner by a huge tank of neon fish, laughing together. She looked down at her phone, fixed her hair in the glass surface, and Sascha cringed from her, her vanity. “We should ditch them.”

Sascha looked down at her and the repulsion curling inside of him manifested on his face as a passing flicker of distaste across his mouth, his eyes. He masked himself before she could see but his patience, already threadbare from everything he’d been dealing with over the past two weeks, was waning like a moon.

“And do what?”

“I don’t know. Go to a bar or something. I haven’t had a proper drink since we got in from Moscow last week.” Olya looked up at him; no recognition of his poison mood showed in her face, and Sascha was at once grateful and annoyed with her inability to comprehend his mood. “We could hang out, catch up without our dads trying to get in the way the whole time.”

Sascha snorted, looked over at his parents; Alex met his gaze and grinned before he looked away and a burst of misplaced fury slashed through Sascha’s chest. He had never felt so out of control of his own life and it was erasing his composure.

“They’re fucking killing me,” he said automatically, sour, and then he knew what he was going to do. “I don’t get why my dad keeps throwing you at me when he knows I’ve just gone through a heat cycle with someone else. There’s no way I’m even _close_ to looking for an Alpha right now. He doesn’t seem to want to accept that you and I are just friends.”

With wide innocent eyes he glanced down at her, searched her face for emotion; something like surprise passed across her face, but just as quickly she erased it. It was what he had wanted, no confrontation, just a firm placement in the friend zone before she could begin to be more forward with her interest. Now if she approached him with her intentions he could say, _Olya, I told you, I don’t think of you like that._ Now he could say, _you’re just a friend._

“My dad is the same way,” she said carefully, after a long moment. “He loves to play the matchmaker. So do you want to leave? It would at least make them happy to see us going off alone together. Maybe they’d shut up about it.”

Sascha hesitated. Right then he had no idea if her account of things was accurate or if she was agreeing with him simply for the sake of saving face; he didn’t want to go with her, but he was tired of feeling the force of his father’s clinical, neverending observation. He checked his phone; Mischa had texted him back with a single loaded word: _oh_. He was only short like this when he was angry, and Sascha went numb with the realization for a second before all of his hurt and confusion and rage and frustration rose volcanic within his chest. Mischa had no right to be angry with him; none at all, not when he was the one allowing things to continue with his wife despite his awareness of how his behavior was affecting Sascha. Sascha knew that Mischa was perfectly cognizant of what was happening between them because it was obvious, because how could he _not be_ , and Sascha was sick of feeling ill because Mischa was choosing to ignore what had become abundantly, photographically clear to Sascha: they were bonded. It wasn’t his fault that Mischa was married; as Marcelo had said, marriage meant nothing next to a bond, and Sascha was tired of getting hurt because Mischa was still trying to keep up with his little façade.

“Yeah, okay” he said to Olya, reckless, knowing Mischa would see them together on her Instagram story, knowing that he would understand that they were alone. Savage joy rushed him at the thought: he wanted Mischa to feel even _half_ the pain he was experiencing. Maybe when he, too, was in physical pain he would understand that this false game of mirrors and misdirection and half-truth could not endure. 

*

They went to a sweet shop for tiny ice cream cones, Sephora for Olya to get a new mascara wand (Sascha waited outside texting Marcelo, who thought the whole situation was hilarious), a little knickknack shop where Sascha bought a handmade collar for Lövik. This time when Olya put him on her Instagram story he didn’t object, even gave a sly little quarter-smile before turning away. Let Mischa see, let the world see, let them speculate. He was tired of explaining himself to everyone.

He didn’t text Mischa back all afternoon. Marcelo commended him for his strength. What Marcelo didn’t know was that despite his annoyance Sascha couldn’t stop himself mentioning Mischa at every turn, subconsciously establishing another Alpha’s dominion over him in lieu of his actual presence.

 _He need to know_ , Marcelo said, when Sascha told him what he was doing. _He need to understand. I know why he does what he does with his wife, but that don’t make it right._

 _Nothing about this is right, dude_ , Sascha answered.

 _You don’t have to tell me, baby Zverev,_ said Marcelo, and Sascha grinned; he knew Marcelo’s tone even through text message.

As Olya had suggested earlier, they wound up at a bar, some brightly lit tropical clusterfuck near the ocean, impossibly large fishbowls and grotesque plates of nachos, strings of colorful lights wound everywhere. Olya wasn’t his favorite person, and she was a shameless flirt, but Sascha thought he could probably tolerate her for a while if it spurred Mischa to action. He ordered a second drink and stowed his phone in his pocket. Marcelo could placate Mischa if need be; he was going off the grid.

*

Mischa could not understand what in the _fuck_ Sascha thought he was doing. 

He had expressed distaste and annoyance for Olya only _that morning_ and now four hours later he was plastered all over her Instagram story, looking hollow at the eyes but smirking all the same. Mischa was furious with himself for perpetuating the sudden popularity of Olya’s social media, but Sascha had abruptly gone radio silent, and the lack of communication was driving him insane. He was alone in the house; Evgeniya, after ensuring that he had food and tea and blankets, had gone out for a run and to do some errands, let him sleep off his fabricated illness. His own thought processes would be his demise.

To stave off madness he texted Marcelo. 

_Dude_.

_Was wondering when you would text me. Wanna talk?_

Mischa didn’t hesitate; he Facetimed Marcelo immediately, and when the Brazilian answered looking amused and reassuringly calm, shirtless on a beach somewhere, Mischa breathed a gigantic sigh, all emotion.

“Are you seeing this shit?”

“Uh huh.” Marcelo’s mouth thinned; he shoved his sunglasses up on his nose and huffed. “They escape because your dads are being obnoxious.”

“But,” said Mischa, “this is going to make it _worse_. She’s putting him _everywhere_ on social media. People are going to talk, and he hates that, and it’s going to add fuel to Dad’s fire.”

“Mischa,” said Marcelo kindly, “let us do ourselves the courtesy of not pretending that is why you care." 

Mischa growled out loud in frustration.

“You’re right,” he said, and his voice was powerless. “Marcelo, I don’t know what to do. He won’t talk to me right now.”

Marcelo arched a smug sharp eyebrow. “You ever think maybe it’s because you’re going home to your wife at night, and not him? Or maybe because you were short with him when you realize he was with other Alpha?"

Mischa gaped at him, struck, always surprised by his nerve. “I – short? He told me she was hanging all over him, what was I supposed to say, _good for you_? I wasn’t trying to be _short_ …”

“Uh huh.” Marcelo looked up, greeted someone off-screen. He spoke in broken Polish and Mischa knew it was Lukasz. “Mischa, Lukasz is here. Say hi.”

“Hey, man,” said Mischa automatically, wiping his face of the exhausted fury that lingered there; by now he was used to throwing up a mask when he couldn’t afford to advertise his emotions to the world. “What’s up?”

“Hi, Mischa,” said Lukasz, poking his head around Marcelo’s screen to wave at him. In the background a gull screamed and Mischa was reminded vehemently of his days with Sascha on that magnificent Baros beach, careless, blind to the future. “You ok? You look tired.”

“Yeah. Just not feeling great today. Sash had the flu last week, and I think I caught it.” Mischa shrugged one shoulder, shook his head. “How’s vacation?”

“Amazing,” groaned Lukasz, and he kissed Marcelo on the mouth. “Tell Sash I said hi. I’m gonna go for a swim, yeah? See you later.”

Mischa waved goodbye to him, smiled for the look on Marcelo’s face as he watched his bondmate stride away. “You’re so gone for him.”

“Yeah, it’s how you look at Sash,” said Marcelo wisely, the expression on his face all cherub. “Why you think you so mad at him for hanging with Olya? You are, as you say, _gone for him_ , too.”

“I know that,” said Mischa, quietly. “I know." 

Marcelo’s face went soft, sympathetic. “Mischka, it happened. You can do nothing to change past. You have to focus on now. If you are bonded, it will not stop hurting him when you are with Evi. He is angry with you for last night, he not understand why you were touching her when he sit right next to you. He think you have no right to be mad at him for Olya when he not even want to see her in the first place.”

“He’s right,” said Mischa, and his voice was all misery. “I can’t say a word. I’m the one with the baggage.”

“She is not _baggage_ ,” said Marcelo gently. “She is your wife, no? You marry her because you think it is the right thing to do, yes? And you love her?”

“I…” Mischa swallowed, looked away. “I don’t know. I used to think yes. But after Sash, I…it just doesn’t compare.”

Marcelo twisted his mouth, sad little smile.

“I have feeling you would say that.”

Mischa felt like throwing up and with a sharp twist in his gut he realized that this was how Sascha had been feeling for days now. “There’s always been this weird, like, thing with us. Like his first heat, I lost my mind. I’ve always been able to pick him out of a room by his scent alone.”

“I know he feel the same way,” said Marcelo, soft. “He tell me he do. He say you have weird thing together, same as you just told me.”

Mischa remembered how Sascha had looked away when he’d said it in the Maldives: _I talk about you all the time_. “Dad made me leave the house. He made me feel so fucking disgusting for reacting to him like I did.”

“You can’t help who your biology draws you to,” said Marcelo. His voice was frank. “Even if it’s Sascha. Your Dad not know this, because he is Beta, and it is strange for two brothers to feel this way about one another. But apparently you do. And you have to deal with it now.” 

Mischa was pacing the floor of his living room; he stopped in front of the glass doors to his balcony, checked his messages. Still there was nothing from Sascha and he felt his stomach seize. 

“I don’t know how.” 

“That’s something only you two can decide,” said Marcelo. “But you have to do it soon, because if you keep things going with Evi, Sascha’s season is ruined regardless. He get sick all the time, can’t keep weight on, he is fucked.” 

Mischa wanted to cry. “He’s my little brother, Marcelo.”

“And you would do anything for him,” said Marcelo, soft. “I know this. You already have. You mate with him to save his season, at such great cost to you both. But now, Mischka, now…he is more your responsibility than ever.”

He didn’t say _because you’re his Alpha_. He didn’t have to. They both knew.

*

Sascha endured dinner with his family and the Sharypovs, in which he grazed like a bird but managed by a full miracle not to black out from all the alcohol, and in the end he made it home without making a complete buffoon of himself. When his father tried to bring up Olya he shook his head with a bland smile, _she’s a friend, Dad, that’s_ it, and Irina silenced Alex with a look. Not for the first time that day Sascha felt like crying; his phone had died several hours ago so he had at least been saved the torment of waiting for Mischa to contact him, but now he was afraid to turn it back on, dreading a continued lack of communication.

In the bathroom he turned furious music to an offensive noise level on his Mac and wallowed still half-drunk in the shower, washed every trace of the day from his glistening skin, deaf to his own thoughts. He could not endure further mental agony. His bruises when he inspected them in the mirror glowed maddening hues of raisin and acid and coal; he wanted to beg Mischa to come to him, care for them, but his pride saved him the chagrin. When he finally checked his phone, which he had plugged in to charge and thrown abandoned on his bed while he showered, he had a missed call and three text messages from his elder brother.

First:

_Can I talk to you?_

And:

_Sash…_

Then:

_Please pick up. I’m worried about you._

Without even a second thought for it Sascha threw on boxers and Mischa’s Roland Garros shirt, which still smacked maddeningly of his brother’s scent, and Facetimed him; let him see what he was missing. When Mischa picked up – in maybe two seconds – Sascha tilted his head, arched an eyebrow under his glasses, tried not to let his expression betray the rush that flooded his chest at the appearance of his brother’s face.

“ _Wie geht’s_?”

“ _Nichts_ ,” said Mischa, but his face was stark with relief. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Mischa,” said Sascha, forcing calm into his voice, but he was so happy to see him that his anger instantly dissipated. “Are you?”

“No.”

“No?” Sascha was surprised at Mischa’s honesty; he hadn’t expected it, but he didn’t have to ask why. He waited. 

“I saw her Instagram story, Sash,” said Mischa quietly, and it shocked him how sickeningly fast his mood could change, skydive stomach drop. “I know you were alone with her.”

“Mischa,” said Sascha, and his tired eyes went round. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. You know Mum and Dad invited her and her parents along. Of course she seized the moment to gain another couple of hundred followers.” 

“You didn’t have to go with her,” said Mischa, feeling more ill than any flu could ever have made him, wracking chills the length of his body, heartbreak pain. “You could have gone home, pawned her off somehow.”

“I couldn’t,” said Sascha, sadly. “You know how Dad gets when he’s in one of his moods. He kept giving me The Look, you know the one.”

Despite himself Mischa snorted. “Oh, god. I hate The Look.”

“Me too. How many fucking times did he give that shit to you around me?”

“Too many. He’s _so_ good at making me feel like a miscreant.”

“Well.” Sascha gave a slow little half-smile and Mischa found himself heavily nostalgic for the tiny lines framing his brother’s eyes, for any joy within him at all. Sascha’s smile, usually so easy, was so difficult to elicit these days. “You kind of are.”

“I kind of am,” agreed Mischa, the taut anxiety in his shoulderline easing slightly. “But so are you.”

Across Sascha’s eyes sputtered a ferocious emotion that Mischa could not name; he chewed his lower lip for a second as though in deep debate with himself and then he sighed and got up from the bed and walked over to the full-length mirror on the back of his door. The light in his room was subdued but when he tapped the camera to flip it around Mischa had no trouble seeing what Sascha intended for him to see.

Sascha was wearing Mischa’s old Roland Garros t-shirt, the one for which Mischa had been searching fruitlessly since he’d returned home from Sascha’s flat in Berlin. It hung loose on him; Mischa had always been more consistently broad through the shoulders and it was obvious that Sascha had lost a bit of weight but it suited him, the color of his skin. In old boxers and long calf socks with his glasses perched haphazardly on his freckle-spattered nose he looked confused and rumpled and sweet and small, and Mischa felt his heart shatter because in that moment he understood more than he ever had before that he was in love with Sascha, so goddamn in love with him it hurt, and it was clenching his ribcage to breathe every second that they were not occupying the same space. He brought a hand to his mouth to chew habitually at the quick of his thumbnail and felt his chest collapse from breath held too long.

“So that’s where that shirt went.”

“I’ve worn it every night,” said Sascha softly. “It smells like you, Mischa.”

“It looks so good on you, Sash,” said Mischa with a rush of sincerity, and Sascha smiled but his eyes were still barren. 

“This shirt is the only thing keeping me sane, Meesh,” he said, low. “I hurt constantly when I’m not with you. It’s like a – like a toothache, or a bruise, or something really low level, but it’s always there. It’s your absence; I know it is, because I can feel it most in the places where you bit me, and in my chest. Like I’m hollow.”

Gutted, Mischa opened his mouth to speak, but Sascha shook his head.

“The whole time she was around me I talked about you,” he said softly, crossing the room to fall gracelessly back down upon his bed. “You’re the only thing that’s on my mind, ever. I didn’t want her to put me all over social media, you know I don’t like people knowing my personal life. I only let her because I wanted you to know what it felt like when I see you with Evi.”

Mischa deflated; Sascha’s words crushed him.

“Sascha…”

“Do you know now?” Sascha’s voice was dull. “Do you understand even half of what I’ve been going through, knowing you’re still with her?”

“No,” blurted Mischa, obliterated. “No, I don’t, because you didn’t even touch Olya, and I’ve been – for God’s sake, Sash. I’ve _slept_ with Evgeniya since you. I have no right to be upset with you, not with anything you do.”

“But you were,” said Sascha, and his voice cracked. “I know you were angry. I always know.”

“I shouldn’t have been,” said Mischa. He could have sobbed. “You should be furious with me. It killed me to know that you were even _near_ her, I can’t imagine how much I’ve been hurting you.”

“It feels like I’m dying, Mischa,” said Sascha frankly. “I can’t sleep, my stomach is always in knots. You can’t be angry with me because Dad brought around some childhood friend of mine. It’s not my fault she’s interested in me. I would never touch her.”

“I know, Sash,” Mischa said gently. “I know. I just – I _hate_ the thought of another Alpha around you, even one that I could crush with my bare hands. You don’t belong to her.” _You belong to me_ , but he couldn’t say it, couldn’t admit that they were bonded, even though he knew.

Sascha’s face went dark with lust; he was mad for Mischa’s Alpha nature. “I know I don’t.”

“Good.” Mischa’s eyes were piercing. “Because if she keeps hanging around you, we’re going to have words. This girl can’t take a hint.”

Sascha hissed. “You better be careful with that, Meesh.” His words were a warning but his tone was all pleasure: he liked it when Mischa got possessive.

“Then she better stop coming around.” 

“I wish your wife would.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll get that wish for a few weeks,” said Mischa, pleased with Sascha’s boldness even as guilt burst slow in his chest. “She’s not coming until Melbourne.”

“I know.” Sascha’s eyes were daring. “What a shame.”

Mischa sighed, got up because he had to move, had to do something before his anxiety ripped him to scraps. The basement was quiet; Evgeniya had long since gone to bed, and Mischa was glad because right now the only room he had in his headspace was set aside for Sascha. Carefully he walked up the stairs to the living room; Sascha was silent, watching him, his face as open as the sky. 

When Mischa reached his destination, he retrieved the item he’d tossed earlier over the back of the loveseat. Then, just as stealthily as he’d come, he padded back down the stairs, shutting the door lightly behind him. On his phone screen Sascha craned his neck, trying to see what was happening. 

“You know that hoodie I let you wear all the time in the Maldives?” 

“Yeah.”

“Well.” Mischa flopped back down on the basement couch, flipped his own camera so Sascha could see what was in his lap. “It just so happens that this hoodie still smells like _you,_ and _I_ have worn _it_ every night to sleep because I am losing my _fucking_ mind without you here with me, Sash, and I don’t know what else to do. I’ve been wearing it as often as I can get away with because it makes me feel close to you.”

Behind the clear frames of his glasses Sascha’s eyes were huge and glossy. He hadn’t known; Mischa hadn’t told him.

“You have?”

“I have,” said Mischa quietly.

“I’m surprised Evi doesn’t notice the smell,” said Sascha, and he grinned, genuinely, for the first time all evening. 

Mischa snorted. “That’s what I thought. I don’t think we’re very strong to anyone but each other, but it’s been weeks since that thing has seen the wash.”

“I haven’t washed your shirt, either,” said Sascha. “It’s about to get up and walk on its own.” 

Mischa laughed out loud. “I’d like to see that.” 

“I don’t think you would.” Sascha wrinkled his nose. “I’m not washing it, though, not until I can steal another one of your shirts in Perth. But, like, a cleaner one. Maybe one that you’ve only worn like once or twice.”

Mischa smiled for that, but it was distant, he was thinking of the upcoming Australian summer, of days and days of relative alone time. “Perth.”

“Yeah.” Sascha swallowed. “A week from now.”

Mischa chuckled, sandpaper. “I’m aware.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it, Mischa,” said Sascha frankly. “We’ll be staying in the same house again. No Evi, no Olya…”

“I know, Sash,” said Mischa fervently. “I can’t stop thinking about it, either. I don’t know what I’m gonna – how I’m gonna be normal with you.”

“You aren’t,” said Sascha flatly. “I don’t think it’s possible for either of us right now."

“Well, yeah,” said Mischa, “I want to shove you up against a wall all the time. Kind of hard to relax when I feel like that.” 

Sascha grinned, adulated, and looked away.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Mischa’s heart swooped. “No?”

Sascha laughed aloud, gobsmacked that Mischa could somehow possibly not know. “Uh, in case you didn’t realize, Meesh, I’d kinda let you do whatever you wanted to do to me. Whenever you wanted.” 

Automatically Mischa’s eyes found the time on his phone because he was thinking _what about now_ , of course he was thinking _what about now_. “You can’t tell me stuff like this, Sash.”

“Don’t tell me _can’t_ ,” said Sascha fiercely, “when you just told me you’re murderous for even the _thought_ of another Alpha around me.”

Mischa set his mouth. Again, again, Sascha was right.

“I’m sorry.”

Sascha’s face melted to melancholia.

“It’s okay,” he said, low. “I don’t know what to do, Mischa.”

To hear him like this was Mischa’s poison; he was endlessly ill, unseated, and he was tired of failing to produce a solution. He sighed aloud.

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

Sascha rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to ask me, idiot. Of course you can.”

“It’s the least I can do,” said Mischa, shuddery from his own guilt, but still he grinned at Sascha’s playful, automatic insult: whatever they were, they were still brothers first. “I’m making you miserable.”

“It’s not _you_ ,” said Sascha, although it was, but he could stand the dusky woe in Mischa’s eyes no longer, and in spite of everything that had happened he could not bear to be the source of Mischa’s pain. “It’s all of this. It’s – I’ve thought of you since I was fourteen, and now I’ve had you, and I – Mischa, it feels like I need you.”

“I’ve thought of you too,” said Mischa, and his heart was vacillating between leaps and drops: they were close, precipice-hovering on the truth, and it felt like fear but it also felt like justification and he didn’t know how to deal with it. “When can I come? Early? We can go for food or something, I need to see you eat.”

“Okay,” said Sascha, and he brightened. “I had an ice cream cone today." 

Mischa wanted to scream. “Is that all?”

“Breakfast,” said Sascha, “and a few bites of dinner. Don’t worry, though, I got plenty of calories in from all the booze.”

“Alexander Zverev,” said Mischa, rough, but Sascha grinned, waved him off.

“I’m fine. If you’re with me I’ll be fine, I always have an appetite with you. I didn’t throw up today, at least.”

“That’s not enough,” said Mischa fiercely. “If I come to you now, will you eat?”

“I – ” began Sascha, but he was cut off by another, softer voice, one that floated quietly from the top of the stairs. Mischa’s heart seized: it was Evgeniya.

“Mischa? Are you down there?”

Under his breath Mischa hissed “ _fuck_ ,” and Sascha saw fear broadcasting openly in his eyes before he cleared his throat and cleared his face all in one go. When he spoke he was nothing but calm.

“Hey, Evi, yeah, I’m here.”

“What are you doing? It’s really late.”

“I know, babe, just didn’t want to wake you up,” said Mischa, and Sascha winced at the pet name. “I feel like shit and Sash does too so we’re just being miserable together over Facetime. I’ll try to come back to bed in a little bit.”

“You should have woken me up,” said Evgeniya with some concern; she was walking down the stairs and Mischa’s heart was panic-beating already. “Do you want to go to the clinic?”

“I’m gonna go,” said Sascha in low German; he was still tipsy enough to be churlish and he didn’t want any possibility of being understood. “Go back to bed. She’ll get weird about it, it’s almost one in the morning. Come see me tomorrow.”

“I love you,” blurted Mischa, in the same language, and Sascha went rosepetal pink with pleasure. 

“I love you too. Go. Bye.”

So Mischa hung up just as Evgeniya rounded the corner, wrapped in her nightgown, looking sleepy and soft and worried.

“I don’t want to go to the doctor,” said Mischa, in answer to her earlier question. He wondered if the flush on his face would pass for fever. “It’ll pass. There won’t be much they can do for me but hydrate me, and I’m doing an okay job of that on my own right now." 

“Are you sure?” Evgeniya’s brow was wrinkled. “Did Sash hang up? Is he okay?” 

“He’s okay. He’s better than I am, I think, cause he’s on the tail end of it. But he was awake anyway and wanted to bitch to me about Olya.” Mischa sat up, caught a whiff of the hoodie in his lap, and threw it over the back of the couch as casually as he possibly could. “I can probably sleep now, honestly, I’ve been laughing for half an hour.” 

“She must just be really oblivious,” said Evgeniya, but she didn’t smile. “Mischa, I – is everything okay? You’ve seemed kind of off the past few days.”

“Have I?” Mischa’s palms were wet with nerve-sweat. “I’m sorry, Ev, I haven’t meant to be. I’ve just been feeling kind of sick, and dealing with all this unnecessary drama doesn’t help, you know?”

“I know.” Evgeniya looked away, but when she looked back her face had cleared of bother and Mischa remembered how to make his lungs work once more. “It seems like a lot at one time. You know you can talk to me, right?” 

“Of course,” said Mischa, and he went to her, took her hand, kissed the top of her head. The gesture was automatic but still it felt wrong, wrong, wrong, because it was not Evgeniya that he wanted to be lending his comfort to. “Always. Shall we go to bed? I know sleep will help.”

“It will. But if you’re not better by tomorrow, you need to go to the doctor. Please?” Evgeniya turned, started climbing the stair, slow. “Sascha does, too.”

“Maybe,” said Mischa, noncommittal, knowing that the doctor would see exactly what he was too petrified to confront: all the glaring, neon signs of a fresh bond. 

*

As it turned out, it was Sascha, not Mischa, who was coerced into going to the doctor the following day.

He could not cajole his mind into calm; he could not settle, and though his stomach raged with hunger when he tried to force down a piece of toast it nearly came back up. He was starting to understand that the longer he stayed away from Mischa, the worse his symptoms became; they might have physically been in the same city but it was clearly not enough to placate the bond. They needed to be within eyesight of each other, they needed access to one another so Mischa could clean his wounds and wrap him up and mind him as he recovered from his heat. Crazed with this developing knowledge, Sascha wandered helplessly out onto the balcony curled in a blanket, delimited by night and city light and wind, and it was chill but at least out here he could overpower his uncertainty with atmosphere. At five thirty in the morning Irina found him staring glaze-eyed and hollow out at the city. Still he had not eaten; still he had not slept. She put one hand to his forehead and declared him in need of a checkup.

“Mum, no,” said Sascha, heartbeat faltering in his ribcage, suddenly drenched in dread. He coiled his blanket more tightly around his throat, paranoid, and shook his head. “I don’t need it, I’m fine. My stomach just hurts, that’s all.”

“Alexander,” said Irina firmly, cupping his face in her gentle hand, “you’re going. You’re barely eating, you’re not sleeping, and you’ve already lost too much weight as it stands. I won’t hear any more about it. Go. Today.”

“But I’m supposed to eat breakfast with Mischa – ”

“That’s fine. You can go with him after the doctor,” said Irina, stern. “The office opens at seven. I want you there as soon as possible.”

She kissed his forehead and Sascha knew argument was futile. The truth would out, one way or another. It was time to get it over with.

*

He drove himself, windows down, music up as loud as his eardrums could withstand; he couldn’t handle hearing his own mind. He had been listening to it since Mischa had left him in Berlin and it was betraying him, eroding him. By the time he parked in the lot of the clinic he felt calm enough to text Mischa, because he had to know, of course he had to know.

_Hey. I’m at the doctor. Mum made me go.  
_

By the time Mischa replied Sascha was already back in an examination room; he had just woken up and he was disoriented but Sascha sensed the riotous panic behind his tone. 

_You’re at the doctor?? Why?_

_She made me. Said I couldn’t lose any more weight._ Sascha didn’t tell him that their mother had found him phantomlike on the balcony, hollow, staring like a dead thing into the unholy hour of dawn.

Just from Mischa’s response Sascha knew that he understood the enormity of the situation.

_Sascha, do you want me there? Are you okay?_

_Loaded question._

_I know. Do you?_

_No. I’m fine. I’ll let you know,_ replied Sascha, and at that moment a decisive knock on the door came and Sascha forgot how to be a human being. _The only way to know for sure if you bonded is from doctor_ , Marcelo had said, and here they were. He took a great placating breath and raised his lionlike head.

“Come in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drama, drama, drama, but we knew it was coming, didn't we? And this is just the beginning...


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, loves - I am quite a busy woman these days and unfortunately I don't have as much time to update as I did when I began this! I am still writing steadily, though, never fear :) hope you enjoy, and thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> A little note on how bonds work in my universe - it is possible, although extremely rare, for an Alpha or an Omega to form more than one bond. Usually these only happen if one partner leaves the other for whatever reason, although instances of cheating in which the unfaithful partner ends up forming another, stronger bond with the new partner have happened. In Sascha and Mischa's case, this is obviously not an issue, because Evgeniya is a Beta, and there was never a chance of Marcelo and Sascha forming a bond because Marcelo and Lukasz are soul-bonded - meaning they are about as perfect for each other as two people can get. Because of this, Marcelo would never even feel the urge to bite another Omega, and they trust each other so much that Lukasz has given him express permission to help Sascha out during his heats. Couple goals.

The physician took a long look at Sascha sitting small on the examination table and tilted his head, set his mouth. Sascha had been seeing Dr. Karthy since he’d moved to Monte Carlo and he was an incredibly intelligent man; nothing, not an iota, seemed able to slip past him. The expression on his face did not portend well for the future, and the first words that came from his mouth only made Sascha squirm with discomfort. 

“You’re looking peaky, Sascha. What’s going on?”

“Um,” said Sascha, wrecking his thumbnail with his teeth, feeling tinier than he’d ever felt, “I’ve been feeling – really sick lately.”

“Okay.” Karthy took a seat across from him, tapped his pen on one impeccably dressed knee. “Sick how?”

Sascha told him. Told him about the sleeplessness, the lack of appetite, the nausea and the debilitating mood swings. Karthy listened, asked him about the timeline, whether he’d eaten anything unusual lately. He took no notes and the intentness of his gaze was sharp but sympathetic and for the first time in days Sascha began to feel a small modicum of relief: he was not being judged, and he might finally arrive at a concrete answer for his ill health. When he’d finished Karthy leaned back and studied him, worried at his lower lip with his front teeth.

“You just passed through a heat cycle, did you not?”

Abruptly Sascha lost all feeling in his fingertips. “Yes.”

“And did you go through it with your usual partner?” 

“No.” Sascha’s voice cracked, ragged whisper.

“Ah.” Karthy sat forward and his eyes were warm throughout with knowledge. “Someone new, then.”

“Yes.” 

“How long did it last?” 

“Uh,” said Sascha quietly. He wanted to look away, couldn’t. “A little over four days." 

“Long for you, I think.”

“A bit.” 

“Tell me,” said Karthy gently, “did this new Alpha bite you during your heat cycle?”

Sascha swallowed. Then, gingerly, he pulled his hoodie over his head so he was left in nothing but his t-shirt, throat exposed, bruises left in stark discoloration under the clinical radiance of the room’s light. Karthy’s eyes lit on his neck and the wise expression that traversed his face was one that Sascha did not like.

“Ah. And were you bitten anywhere else?”

Sascha went red as a sweet cherry. “Um, yeah. On my – on my inner thighs.”

“I see,” said Karthy, and he smiled at Sascha, reassuring him. “And your partner, is he or she here with you now? In Monte Carlo, I mean?”

“He,” said Sascha shakily, “is in the city, yes, but we – ah – we had to be away from each other for a few days. I was out of town for something.”

“He’s just in the city? Not staying with you?”

“Um, no,” said Sascha. His face was boiling. “He’s kind of – he’s already with someone else?”

“With someone? Do you mean he is bonded to someone else?”

“No,” said Sascha cautiously. Karthy was not Mischa’s regular physician, but he knew enough about Sascha’s family and personal life that it was highly possible that he could put two and two together if too much detail was revealed. “He’s – he didn’t have an existing bond before we, you know. Before my heat. But he’s already in a really serious relationship.”

“Okay. So has this Alpha been spending time with his original partner since he got back to the city?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, croaky from misery. “I’ve barely seen him.”

“I see,” said Karthy again, and then he sighed. “Sascha, I’m going to be frank. You are describing and displaying to me every one of the symptoms of a fresh bond. There’s no way to give you a clinical diagnosis without taking some bloodwork, but I’ll just tell you at this point that I don’t think it’s necessary. You’re checking all the boxes, kiddo. We can take a blood sample if you like, just to be certain, but…I’m pretty sure, and I think you are, too.”

Sascha could feel tears threatening in his throat; he gulped them heroically down. “We can’t be bonded. It’s impossible.”

“It isn’t,” said Karthy gently. “I understand that you feel guilty about your partner’s existing relationship, but even marriage pales in the face of a true bond. We can’t fight our biology, Sascha. Did you give consent for him to help you through your heat?”

“Many times,” said Sascha. “It was – kind of an unusual circumstance. My usual Alpha couldn’t get to me in time, so I had to, um. Improvise.”

“And you don’t have a bond with your usual Alpha.”

“No,” said Sascha on a ruined whisper. “I don’t – I mean I get how bonds work, mostly, but – is there any way to, like, break it? Or…"

“Honestly? No, not really,” said Karthy, grim. “If you don’t keep to this bond, your stamina will continue to deteriorate, and your physical fitness will never be quite the same. Over time, if you don’t work to strengthen the bond, it will eventually begin to weaken, but it could be years before that happens, and I’m sure you understand that because of your profession you don’t _have_ years. Is your new Alpha aware of what’s been going on?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha. “He is. He’s tried to be there as much as he can, but I mean – he already has someone else, and I know he feels guilty as fuck. Sorry.”

“He shouldn’t,” said Karthy, smiling as he waved off Sascha’s curse. “That sounds harsh, but it really is true. Sometimes we don’t meet our proper bondmates until after we’ve started seriously dating someone else, or even married them. The universe is cruel like that. It’s not fair, but when an Alpha and an Omega form a bond, they become a unit. They need each other, to give and take from one another. The stronger the bond, and the more compatible the two are, the more imperative that need becomes. Trust me when I tell you that it’s in your absolute best interest to accept this Alpha as your bondmate if you wish to continue your career, or even have a fulfilling _life_ for the foreseeable future. You’re already ill and miserable. It will not improve unless you are with him.”

Sascha felt as though he were at the top of a skyscraper, nothing between him and the plunge but an inch of metal scaffolding. He was numb everywhere. 

“So that’s – that’s it? There’s no other choice?”

“Not without drastically reducing quality of life,” said Karthy gently. “For both of you. Have you spoken with him about the possibility of a bond? I know your upbringing was a bit reserved, but that’s unusual. He, at least, should have been aware of the potential consequences when he bit you.” 

“I – we’ve talked about it a bit,” said Sascha, rusty. He couldn’t seem to cobble together a coherent sentence; he was a mess, internal turmoil. “I mean, I was aware, too, just like – I didn’t think there was a hundred percent chance of a bond if I got bitten.”

“One bite, maybe two, and you might get away with it,” said Karthy, shrugging. “But when multiple bites are present, like in your situation? A bond will almost always take place, especially if there was chemistry between the two of you beforehand. Was there?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Sascha. He swallowed. “There was a lot, actually.”

“Do you mind my asking why,” said Karthy gently, “if there was something so significant between the two of you, you didn’t pursue this relationhip previously? Before he became involved in a serious relationship with someone else, for example?”

Sascha flushed all the way down to his toes; he’d thought Karthy was going to ask who the Alpha was, but this question was nearly as bad.

“Because,” he muttered, “my father – he doesn’t approve.” 

“No? Why do you think that is?”

“My dad doesn’t want me to be with a man,” said Sascha softly. “He wants grandbabies. Like, really badly. And he was brought up in a really strict traditional household, so I think maybe – I don’t know – he just doesn’t know how to feel about it.”

“I see,” said Karthy. “Well, Sascha, you’re an adult, and you’re perfectly capable of making your own decisions. If your father were aware of the presence of a bond, he might reconsider his feelings for the sake of your physical and mental health, and your career. I know he’s a Beta, and he’s not overly knowledgeable about Alpha and Omega dynamics. I could talk to him, if you like, and explain…?” 

“No,” said Sascha quickly, reaching instinctively for the chains hanging from his throat. “No, Dr. Karthy, thank you. This is something I should probably take care of on my own. I think I need to talk about this with my Alpha first, and then figure out how to tell Dad." 

Only after he’d spoken the words aloud did he realize what he’d said: _my Alpha_. It made him realize that he’d subconsciously been referring to Mischa like this in his head for days.

The rest of the visit was direct, clinical: Karthy prescribed a mild sleep aid for Sascha to use as needed, just in case the insomnia didn’t abate. He weighed Sascha on the scale next to the examination table, compared it to the weight of his last checkup (he’d lost five kilos), shook his head and tutted. Advised him, gently but forcefully, to discuss things with his Alpha as soon as possible; the longer he waited, the worse his condition would become. Sascha asked him to draw blood just in case; Karthy agreed reluctantly, and so far retreated inside of his own head was Sascha that he didn’t feel the needle prick in the slightest. Five minutes later, he left the office clutching a bottle of pills and a sheaf of paper, a stone lodged heavily in his gut: he’d known what Karthy would say, but now that he had gotten, more or less, a legitimate diagnosis, there was nothing else for them to hide behind. There could be no more dodging the truth.

It was eight thirty in the morning. He was supposed to meet Mischa back at the house at nine fifteen, and he had no idea how he was going to tell him. When he climbed into his car, instead of checking his phone for messages, he immediately opened Spotify to a playlist he’d made in the middle of the night, ridiculous and sappy and consumed by his unfulfilled emotion. The only noise he needed in his head right now was song.

*

When Sascha pulled into his driveway Mischa’s car was already there. He parked beside him, shoved the stack of informational papers into his glove compartment, grabbed his pills and got out of the car. When his feet found the ground he realized his legs were shaking.

He checked his phone for notifications; both Mischa and Irina had texted him, and Marcelo had sent him a Snapchat. So, he realized with an unpleasant jolt, had Olya. He opened her selfie, didn’t reply, and as he was walking up the stairs he read his messages. 

From Irina:

_Everything okay?_

From Mischa:

_Are you out? What’s up?_

Sascha clicked his phone off, dropped it in his hoodie pocket, took a deep breath. Shoved his key in the lock and let himself into the house.

“I’m home,” he yelled, and there was a mild commotion from the living room; Irina arrived into the foyer first, followed by Alex and Mischa. Sascha avoided Mischa’s eyes, concentrated on carving his face from stone. 

“Hey, honey,” said Irina, and strode over to him. “Did you get some medicine?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, and held up his little bag, inside of which rested the bottle of sleeping medication. “I got some anti-nausea stuff. I have the flu.”

Mischa said, “So does that mean that’s what I have?” And Sascha turned his face to him like a flower to the sun. When their eyes met he swallowed sharply and he could tell that Mischa was trying to read his face.

“Maybe. Do you feel better today?”

“Much,” said Mischa, and only Sascha could tell he was lying. “You?”

“Nah. I couldn’t sleep, I was up sick.” Sascha shrugged. “I actually feel like I could eat right now, though, want to go?”

“Definitely. Mum and Dad were asking if they could come with us, is that cool?” Mischa’s eyes were screaming, words that Sascha didn’t have to hear to understand, and a surge of annoyance crashed over his head before he realized that their presence would save him from his impending duty: to tell Mischa that they were, medically, almost certainly bonded. He blinked.

“God. No, you guys, come on,” he said, and winked at his parents. “Of course it’s cool. Where are we going?”

“Did you take some of the medicine? You look a little better,” said Irina, touching his face. 

“And sound better,” said Alex, nodding. “Food will help you, Sash. We can go wherever you want.”

“Not Angelo’s,” said Sascha and Mischa in unison, and grinned at each other.

“They’re not even open for breakfast,” said Irina, rolling her eyes at her sons. “Sascha, do you need to do anything to get ready, or can we go now? While you’re actually hungry?”

“No, I’m good,” said Sascha. He put his pills on the counter, yanked up his hood subconsciously; he felt so exposed without a high collar, and he lived in fear of the disastrous spatter of his bruises airing for the world to see. “Let’s go. Mischa, can we take your car? I want to _not_ drive.”

“You got it,” said Mischa immediately, and Sascha smiled. It was no wonder he instantly felt improved in Mischa’s presence: the attentive Alpha in him was contemporaneous always, and Sascha’s Omega nature responded well to it. Mischa would do whatever Sascha asked, and he would be glad to do it, because by doing so he was caring for him, ensuring his wellbeing. 

As they walked out the door Mischa clicked open his Range Rover so Alex and Irina could get in, hung back while Sascha double-locked the house, bit his lower lip as he watched him fumble with the keys. In harsh German-Russian, so their parents would not be able to understand in case they overheard, he said, 

“Do you really have the flu?”

Sascha looked at him, tilted his head. The dark craters under his eyes were so cavernous they extended nearly halfway down his face.

“Do you really want to ask me about this when we’re about to go to eat breakfast with Mum and Dad?”

Mischa’s face paled, reverse flood. “So you don’t have the flu.”

“What do you think?” Sascha yanked his key from the lock, checked the handle.

Mischa’s nostrils flared. “I – ”

“Mischa, stop. You can’t think about this right now, you’re going to lose it. Let’s go.” Sascha smacked him on the arm, took off for the car, and Mischa followed him chastised, knowing Sascha was right. Their parents’ recent timing really couldn’t have been any more inconvenient.

*

 _If you’re with me I’ll eat_ , Sascha had said, and eat he did. To avoid looking suspicious in front of Alex and Irina he ordered bland things: pancakes and eggs with just a bit of cheese, toast, a bowl of fruit, and he couldn’t finish it all but he did well enough that his family exclaimed over the damage he’d done. He and Mischa spent half the meal with their fingers braiding and unbraiding together under the table and the warmth that flowed through Sascha’s bloodstream was undeniable. Simply put, Mischa made him better, and Sascha took the fact that he was still willing to be physical like this – even initiating contact – as a positive sign.

In contrast to Sascha’s miraculous, albeit mild, recovery, Mischa was an absolute disaster.

 _So you don’t have the flu_ , he’d guessed, and Sascha had replied, _what do you think_? In Mischa’s head that could only mean one thing, especially because the second Mischa had tucked his hand inside Sascha’s his little brother had started to _radiate_ happiness. With every bit of attention Mischa paid him – every microscopic touch, every smile directed his way – Sascha’s countenance brightened ever so subtly, until he was _gleaming_.

Alex and Irina noticed. 

“Sascha, you really do look better,” said Irina approvingly, smiling. “You must have really needed the food.”

“I feel better,” said Sascha, and his knee against Mischa’s began to shake, anxious. “A lot better, actually. Dr. Karthy gave me a shot of something that he said would help fight the nausea.”

“It obviously worked,” said Alex. “You should rest today, though, Sash, you still look exhausted.”

“I know. I will,” said Sascha, and as though on cue he yawned massively. “I might go try to nap on the beach for a while.”

“It’s a good day for it,” said Mischa, attempting to be casual as he stabbed at the last of his pancakes. He knew Sascha had suggested it because their parents often avoided the beach until midsummer; Irina was coldblooded and needed extremely high temperatures to stay warm when she was sunbathing. “Do you want company? Evi has work today, so I’m free all afternoon.”

“Yes,” said Sascha, restraining himself, because as much as he dreaded the discussion they were honor-bound to have he craved Mischa’s company like a child craved sweet. “Come with me. Mum? Dad?”

“We’ll pass,” said Irina. “You two go have a good time. We’re going to go to a museum today. Not very conducive for sleep.”

And that was how, thirty minutes later, equipped with blankets and mild-weather beach gear, Sascha and Mischa somehow managed to escape alone to the sea. As soon as they had jumped back into Mischa’s car Sascha said,

“You and me going to the ocean, Meesh. Feels familiar, yeah?”

Mischa smiled, reached over, ruffled his hair; without even realizing that he was doing it Sascha purred aloud, leaned into the touch. Under Mischa’s hands he felt like a sunflower in bloom, opening for its namesake, cultivated. 

“Very familiar.” 

He didn’t ask Sascha about the doctor. He knew that they would speak about it whenever Sascha felt comfortable enough to approach the subject. 

When they reached the seaside they surveyed the coast; as Sascha had suspected it would be, the shore was brimming with people. For a moment they both observed in silence and then Mischa said quietly,

“Do you want to stay here?” 

Sascha looked at him. 

“Did you have something else in mind?” 

“Uh,” said Mischa, and he cut his eyes away, chewed at his lower lip. “Well. It’s still really early. Evi is in meetings until five. If you want we can go back to my house and you can sleep in a real bed instead of on a beach towel, or we can throw down blankets on the floor of the basement and watch movies, or…”

Sascha was so exhausted and overemotional that the mere suggestion of it nearly drew tears to his eyes; it was exactly what he wanted to do, and it made his chest rush with joy to know that Mischa understood him well enough to know this. He swallowed once, twice; hauled in a low, unsteady breath before he spoke again.

“Yes. Please.”

Mischa tilted his head and looked at him fondly; when Sascha was tired he got sweet and soft, and right now he was so much of both it hurt. “Sash, look at you. You’re exhausted.” 

“Mm.” Sascha gave a noise that was almost a chuckle as Mischa pulled back out onto the road. “Shockingly, you’re not the first person to tell me that today.”

“No way.”

“Believe it,” said Sascha, and when he smiled Mischa went warm all over for it. “I would kill for a bed right now, I could sleep for a year.”

Mischa cleared his throat.

“Is it,” he said, and had to start again. “Is it – because you’re with me?”

“Well,” said Sascha, “let’s see. When you’re not around I can barely even look at food, and when I try to sleep my brain instantly feels like I’ve done a line, but the second you get around me I’m ravenous and feel like I could hibernate. I don’t see a correlation here, do you?” 

Mischa was grinning; as much as he liked Sascha soft he loved him snarky, because that was as strong a part of his nature as anything else. “You’re such a brat.”

“Yeah? Who taught me to be that way, huh?” The sass of Sascha’s words was diminished by the huge yawn that pulled through him in the middle of the sentence.

“Me,” said Mischa calmly, and once again he reached over to braid his fingers through Sascha’s curls. He hadn’t showered that morning and the taste of his emotion was as easy to detect as the scent of a pie baking in the oven; Mischa was starved for it. “God, Sash.” 

Sascha’s eyes had slipped shut, basking. “What.”

“Nothing,” said Mischa softly, “it’s just that you’re so beautiful.”

Sascha’s smile opened his face like a flowering rose. “Shut up.”

“No,” said Mischa. “Do you even know what seeing you in my shirt last night did to me?”

Pause. Then, 

“I have an idea,” said Sascha carefully.

“Mmhmm.” Mischa brought his fingers together on Sascha’s head so he could scratch his scalp and Sascha sighed aloud. “If I could steal you away right now, I would.”

“Who says you can’t,” said Sascha huskily.

“Everyone.”

“Everyone,” repeated Sascha, and he gave a bitter little choke of a laugh. “It does seem kind of _us against the world_ right now, doesn’t it.”

“Yeah. Except I’ve been leaving you alone too much,” said Mischa, and the earnesty in his voice shredded something diamond-hard and caustic inside of Sascha. “You feel alone right now. I can tell.”

Sascha’s voice when he spoke was not sturdy; to ground himself he stared out the window, followed the gorgeous coastline until his eyes blurred. “How do you know that?”

“Because I know you,” said Mischa gently. “And because – because I can smell it on you.”

Sascha inhaled once, sharp; he was appalled for how quickly tears could rise to his eyes now, sick of his own fragility. “Yeah, well, I know you feel guilty. I know it’s killing you. I can smell that on you too.”

“Sascha, this,” said Mischa, and his voice was broken. His fingers still curled and uncurled in Sascha’s unruly hair. “This isn’t normal.”

“Yeah, Mischa, I know,” said Sascha, curbing the hysteria in his voice, and then they rounded a corner and Mischa’s neighborhood came into view and his heart quelled. “I told you, I haven’t felt normal since you left me in Berlin.”

Mischa looked pained. “Don’t say that – ”

“You know what I meant,” said Sascha, shaking his head. “I know you didn’t have a choice. Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“For me either,” said Mischa, quiet. “It makes it worse.”

“I know.” They were pulling into the driveway of Mischa’s house; Sascha unbuckled his seatbelt and looked up into the windows, straining to see. “You’re sure she isn’t here?” 

“I’m sure. You can stay anyway, as long as you want. It won’t be weird, you’ve done it before.”

“Things were a bit different before,” said Sascha, wry, and Mischa smirked at him.

“Shut up. Come on.”

Inside the house it was cool and still and silent and Sascha relished in it; he had not realized how much of a strain his parents’ presence was placing upon him until he’d left them behind. He loved them, of course he did, but the timing of their visit in light of recent events could not have been less suitable. Right now he needed time to think and breathe and examine his own emotions without the strain of having to play host, and none of those things were possible while they inhabited his space.

Around them the house sighed, shifted; the air conditioner kicked on and began to hum, soothing as a car engine. Sascha yawned automatically and Mischa came up behind him, slid a hand up his spine, lodged his fingers as he so loved to do in the curls at the nape of Sascha’s neck.

“What do you need, Sash?”

“Sleep,” said Sascha, and then, softly, “and you. Please.”

Mischa knew what he meant. He took Sascha’s hand, led him slowly to the back bedroom, which was just as high-ceilinged and spacious as the master, and went to the bed. Yanked down the sheets and stepped out of his shoes and undressed to his boxers. Sascha watched him with his heartbeat drubbing a frantic snaredrum cadence inside its cage of bones, harsh inhale in his throat, and when Mischa climbed in and patted the space beside him he almost lost his mind. Instead he kicked his shoes off, pulled his shirt over his golden head, slid his sweatpants down so they fell at his feet. The second Mischa reached out to him Sascha took his hand and fell lightly atop the mattress beside him.

For a long sparse moment they looked at each other. Then Mischa reclined back against the pillows, pulled Sascha over, and wrapped his arms around him, both of them on their sides, faces together, legs twining as seamlessly as though they had been cuddling like this for years. The heat between them was pleasant and buzzing and all of it felt perfect and normal and harmonic and the tears that Sascha had been struggling to chain finally loosed themselves from his eyes, tiny translucent jewels down his freckled cheeks. Mischa wiped them away, his face crumpling with distress.

“What is it, Sash?” 

Sascha’s heart squeezed. “I – it’s everything, Mischa, it’s – you’re here, and you don’t know how long I’ve needed you to hold me, and I’m scared and I’m so fucking exhausted and I – today has been a lot.”

Mischa’s throat went tight, constricted. For Sascha’s sake he kept his tone as light as possible, but his stomach was shot through with corkscrew anxiety.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sascha took a breath, angled his head so he could look into Mischa’s eyes. “I guess I should tell you about the doctor, huh.”

“If you want to,” said Mischa gently; he was trembling and he could feel that Sascha was too. “You can sleep first, if that would make it easier.”

“No, I,” said Sascha, and he paused, drew back. “Meesh, you’re shaking.”

“Yeah,” said Mischa, and he laughed to stop himself crying. “It’s a big deal, Sash.”

Sascha gave that little wisp of a smile; Mischa hated it, he wanted the sunray beam that accompanied his brother’s beautiful joy. “Yeah. So like I said, I don’t have the flu.”

“I know you don’t,” said Mischa quietly.

“I know you know,” said Sascha, and he gave a gigantic outpuff of breath. “Basically the first thing Karthy asked me about was my heat cycle. When it was, how long it lasted, who I was with, that sort of thing. I think he already knew it wasn’t Marcelo.”

“He’s too fucking smart for his own good,” said Mischa, and shook his head. “Continue.” 

“So I told him it was someone new, and he asked if I’d been bitten.” Sascha’s voice was somehow steady and he bulldozed on. “I showed him my throat, and he wanted to know if I’d been spending time with my – with the Alpha that had been with me through my heat, and I told him sort of, but not really, because obviously. I didn’t give him too much detail because I was afraid he’d put two and two together about who it was. And then he asked if the Alpha – if you – were bonded already, and I told him no, but that you were in a really serious relationship already, before me. And he said that, you know, that it didn’t matter.”

Mischa’s mouth was dry as a sandshelf. “What didn’t matter?”

Sascha breathed, met Mischa’s eyes. There was no hiding the apprehension that dwelled there.

“He said that serious relationships – even marriages – are nothing next to a bond.”

Mischa exhaled; subconsciously he had known that they’d bonded as soon as he’d bitten Sascha for the very first time, but because Alex had taught him through shame that he had no choice but to be, he was a master of denial. The admission felt like a slap, a shock.

“So there’s,” he said, low, “definitely a bond?”

“Karthy took bloodwork to make sure,” said Sascha softly, and he looked away, all nerve and tension. “So no, not definitely. But.”

Mischa felt like the world was edging out from underneath him, inch by inch so he lost his grip in a slow, panicky way, enough to feel that fear, that sense of scrambling for purchase. “But,” he echoed. He was suddenly aware that he was picking underneath his fingernails with such force that the skin there was starting to become sore. “How long will it take for the results to come back?”

“I don’t know,” said Sascha, helpless. “A few weeks, maybe less.”

“Okay,” said Mischa, and he breathed out slow, rickety exhale unstable as a crumbling railroad bridge. “Are you okay?”

“Are you?”

“Touche,” said Mischa, and Sascha smiled weakly. “What else did he say?”

Sascha’s face bloomed blood, crimson, cardinal. Dark blush, mortification, and Mischa’s heart slammed down like an avalanche crash.

“If there’s a bond,” said Sascha carefully, cherry-picking because he couldn’t bear to say _it can’t be broken_ , not now, “we’ll be miserable without each other. I’ll stay the way that I am, pretty much, and you’ll get weaker and feel unfulfilled without me, and all that shit. It’s not good, Meesh.”

Mischa’s lungs felt waterlogged. “So our careers would be fucked, basically.”

“Probably.” Sascha shrugged. He wasn’t sure why he was dodging the entire truth but he knew he wouldn’t survive the look on Mischa’s face if he told him that there was, more or less, no choice but for them to continue. “Anyway, that’s been my day.”

Mischa kissed the top of his head, kept his lips pressed there for a long time, and when Sascha pulled back he was astonished to see that Mischa’s eyes were overbright with tears.

“Meesh?”

“You’ve been going through this,” said Mischa heavily, “alone. I’ve been letting you go through this _alone_.”

Alarm slashed through Sascha’s bloodstream. “No, Mischa, it’s okay. I mean, you’re married, for God’s sake. What else can you do without giving us away completely?”

“More than this,” said Mischa, fierce. “I left you alone with Olya, I let you see me with Evgeniya, I let you go to the doctor by yourself to deal with something _I did to you_. And you’re right, Sash, you’re right. I did leave you alone in Berlin when all I had to do was stay. Look at you, you’re so skinny, you’re so tired, and it’s my fault. You’re my responsibility, and I’m letting you down every day.”

“You didn’t _do anything to me_ ,” said Sascha vehemently. He sat up, pulled Mischa up with him so he was crosslegged between Mischa’s thighs. “I _asked you_. I _gave you my consent_. How many times do I have to fucking tell you, Mischa, that I’ve wanted you to fuck me since I was _fourteen_? I know you like to do this thing where you don’t believe me because you want to be the – the martyr here, or whatever, but it’s _fucking true_. I used to jerk off thinking about the way you smelled when you came into my room. Fuck, I didn't even know how think about how I was feeling, you know? I threw up at your goddamn wedding because it made me sick to think that there wasn’t even an _inkling_ of a chance for us anymore, if we could both get our shit together and just realize it.”

Mischa’s face was snow-pale. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” 

“Tell my big brother that I’m into him? That I want him to fuck me?” Sascha quirked an eyebrow. “How do you think I thought you’d react to that, Mischa? Fuck, I didn't even know what to think about how I was feeling.”

Mischa looked away, slid his tongue between his lips, licked around them to stop from grinning. “Yeah, okay, fair point. But don’t ever forget that it was me that ran into your room first.” 

“Oh I haven’t,” said Sascha, and there was a blade of dark lust in his voice that settled like embers in the pit of Mischa’s stomach. “My point is, you’re beating yourself up about this way too much. Yeah, you’ve spent time with Evgeniya since we’ve been back here. So what? She’s your wife, and I’m your little fucking brother. I told you in the car: I can smell the guilt on you. I know it’s killing you to be away from me, too.” 

Mischa explored his eyes and found only honesty there.

“Sash, if we’re bonded,” he said weakly, but Sascha put a finger over his mouth. Mischa kissed his fingerprint.

“If we’re bonded,” said Sascha grimly, “we’ll deal with it. If you say one more word about this being your fault I’m going to punch you in the face. Now can we please do what we came here to do?”

Mischa’s eyebrows bridged; Sascha loved shocking him. “What did we come here to do?”

“Catch me up on sleep, duh,” said Sascha, grinning. He rubbed up against Mischa’s forehead, nuzzled him, and Mischa purred low in his throat. “Unless you had something else in mind.”

It had been a long time since they had been overly physical and Mischa’s body was crying out for Sascha’s skin. He closed his eyes, nuzzled back, lips parting reflexively. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“It would only be fair,” said Sascha. He drew away and Mischa pressed his face into his throat, licked at the discoloration there, mottled canvas. “God, Mischa.”

“You should sleep,” said Mischa against Sascha’s skin, even as his hands mapped luxuriantly up Sascha’s torso, thumbs over his obvious ribcage, his chest. “You need rest.”

“I need you, too, Mischa,” said Sascha, rough, and Mischa rose up and kissed him hot on the mouth, the taste of Sascha like wine, sweet and woozy and entrancing. They had both been aching for it for days and the contact was a hit of opium for them both, needy as addicts. Sascha whimpered into Mischa’s open mouth and Mischa’s grip on his shoulders clenched hard.

“Sash, what are we going to do,” he said, rough, and Sascha drew back, bit his lower lip.

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “Right now I don’t care. I just want to be with you, Mischa, let me be, let's not talk about it. You feel so good.”

Mischa shut his eyes and kissed Sascha’s jaw, the centre of his nose, his eyelids as they fluttered closed. Tender, tender he pulled him down, let him rest his tawny head at the center of his chest, drew him in and wrapped his limbs around him so Sascha was fully encased in his embrace.

“Okay,” he said, and rocked him soft back and forth. “Sleep for me, Sash, please. Let me give you what you need.” 

Sascha raised his head, grinned, and his lovely eyes were jade and gleaming through exhaustion. “What if I need something else?”

Mischa groaned, but he was hard for it. “That’s lower on the hierarchy. Rest. Then we’ll talk.” 

Slow, soft, Sascha kissed down the line of Mischa’s sternum. “Talk, you say. That’s it?”

“Fuck off,” said Mischa, but he was chuckling. Sascha felt it radiating from his chest, how the noise rumbled, thunderous. “Go to sleep. I don’t do lullabies.”

“You used to,” said Sascha, and as he dropped his head back down and curled in closer to Mischa’s warmth he yawned, shook with the force of it. “I don’t forget things so easily.”

“I am all too aware,” said Mischa, ruffling his hair, so full of fond he was flooded with it. “Sascha…”

“Yeah.” Sascha’s voice was warm, milk-cloudy with the sleep he so desperately needed.

Mischa pressed his mouth to Sascha’s head, blew against his chaotic hair.

“I’m so fucking glad you’re here.” 

When Sascha _mmm_ ed it was pleasant and sweet and _teeming_ with happiness. He hadn’t known how much he’d needed to hear Mischa speak his guilt aloud until he’d done it and now that they were one step closer to solidifying the truth he felt as though half of his multitude of problems had fallen from his shoulders. Mischa had taken the news well, better than expected, and when the bloodwork came back they would deal with the results, just as they had dealt with every other problem they had ever faced. Together.

“Me too, Meesh.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF you guys it's been like a hundred years since the last update, I'm SO sorry. Thanks for keeping on me about it and I'll try to do better next time! I've moved and started a new job and my life is kinda awesome right now, AKA I don't have as much time to write, which sucks because I'm still very much here for this story and what's been going on in real life with the boys. Recent events have kinda made me want to change up my OG plot for this story a little bit so we'll see where that goes.
> 
> Anyway...hope you enjoy :) thanks for your patience!!

Sascha awoke brusquely to his phone roaring near the side of his head; as though he’d been smacked awake he sat up and with a dull sucking shock realized he was alone in bed. Through the shuttered window he could tell that the sun was low, low, low in the sky; he could smell the rich, hot scent of food, hear soft music peppered with voices emanating from the kitchen. He realized he was starving.

Still blurry at his edges he checked the name on his phone and was unsurprised to discover that it was Marcelo; of course he’d be checking in, of course. Sascha accepted the call and sat up, slammed a groggy hand to his head.

“Hey.”

“Jesus. Finally. I think you disappear on me,” scolded Marcelo; he was speaking loudly and Sascha suspected that he might be a bit drunk. He always was one to go hard on the off-season, said it made him appreciate his body just a little bit more, what it did for him. “You ok? What’s going on?”

Sascha groaned, low. “Mm. Did you talk to Mischa?”

“Little bit,” said Marcelo defensively. “He say you go to doctor. Why you not tell me?”

“Mum made me go,” said Sascha, rolling his eyes. “She thinks I have the flu.” 

“Well, you tell her you do, so. She gonna think so.”

“Better than the truth,” said Sascha, resigned.

“And what is truth?” Marcelo’s voice hushed then, and Sascha loved him for that, the ability to inject compassion into his voice as soon as it was needed. “Bond?” 

“Basically,” said Sascha, collapsing back onto the pillows. “No guarantees, I mean, but the doctor said he didn’t really need to take my bloodwork. Just did it because I asked him, as a confirmation. I’ll know for sure in a couple of weeks.” 

“Ah,” said Marcelo, and Sascha was reminded forcefully of Karthy. “Mischa sound okay when I talk to him. You think he is?”

“He took it well, actually,” said Sascha. “I didn’t exactly tell him everything, though.”

“What you mean?”

“Like, the details of what would happen if we didn’t keep up the bond,” said Sascha, sheepish, picking at the comforter between his fingers, and Marcelo gave a little bleat of amused frustration.

“ _Sascha_.”

“What?” Sascha grinned, couldn’t help the reflex. “I’m just trying to spare him unnecessary pain in case we aren’t actually…”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Marcelo, and Sascha could hear him rolling his eyes over static waves of air. “Not to be that guy, but you are. I know it, you know it, _he_ know it. Okay? He need to know everything. You tell him, or he is blindsided, because he not admit it to himself. This kind of like his _whole fucking life_ here.” 

The guilt came on like a squall. “Yeah, Marcelo, I know.”

“Just saying, Sash,” said Marcelo. His voice was gentle. “Where are you now?”

“Mischa’s.”

“Doing what?”

“I just woke up. We were napping. I can’t sleep much without him right now,” said Sascha, and sighed. “I think Evi is home.” 

“Then you have to go out there,” said Marcelo. “Put on your nice face, go make excuses, then go home. Or stay. But be nice to her. She don’t deserve any of this, Sash.”

Sascha blew out a breath and all of it, _all_ of it, was painful. He knew Marcelo was right, but so much of him was selfish right then that it was hard for him to care. His biology was forcing him to see her as nothing but an obstacle to his Alpha, one he would trounce even if it demolished him.

“I want to stay. I want to be with him.”

“So stay,” said Marcelo softly. “Let him take care of you the only way he can right now. He losing his mind over you, Sash, you not the only one who don’t know what to do.”

Sascha could have cried for the words. Instead he swallowed, bid Marcelo goodbye, threw on one of Mischa’s t-shirts under a high-necked hoodie, and headed to the kitchen to make small talk with Mischa and Evi as they finished preparing dinner. As Alex and Irina were already driving over to the house to join them, there was no exiting the situation, but Sascha compartmentalized his brain successfully enough to remain calm and pleasant. It helped that Mischa came to him frequently to run a hand through his hair, press subtle touches to his shoulder as he passed by. For now, it was enough to be near him. For now, it was enough to know that he understood what was happening, and he was by all accounts not going anywhere.

If anyone noticed anything different between them not a word was said. It wasn’t unusual for Sascha and Mischa to be all over each other; it was as they had always been, and Sascha had never been more grateful for it. Their lifelong closeness allowed them to shroud themselves in stark sight.

*

The next week was blurs and edges, a dervish mess of mirrors and smoke and tricks as Sascha and Mischa navigated a clumsy way through their unsteady façade of a life. Although they kept physicality to a minimum – pilfered, infrequent kisses and neverending hugs and lazy cuddly naps whenever they could both steal a free hour or two – Mischa spent as much time at Sascha’s side as he could, and Sascha dodged Evgeniya with the skill of a street pickpocket. The result was that he kept weight on, hit the court again with minimal issue, and started sleeping a passable amount, although the longer he went without seeing Mischa, the more obvious the strain on his body became. 

On their last night in Monte Carlo insomnia assaulted him like an awakened nest of hornets, unrelenting, vicious. In an attempt to combat the sleeplessness alone he took the medication Karthy had prescribed him, listened to Gregorian chant, put on _The Office_ as familiar, soothing background noise. Texted Marcelo to keep himself from reaching out to Mischa, but when his friend fell asleep he was out of options. Irina and Alex had left to fly back to Germany for several days before the Australian summer began and he was alone in the house with only Lövik for company; as much as he adored the little animal, he was no substitute for Mischa and his solidity, the comfort and sense of _correctness_ he provided. At one am he called him, had to force himself not to ask him to come over.

“Sash,” Mischa whispered into the phone, and Sascha whined, frustrated, hating himself for how much just the sound of Mischa’s _voice_ could pacify him instantly. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

The pet name shot warmth down Sascha’s spinal column; Mischa had never called him anything like _that_ before, and it felt strange and earnest and _wonderful_. Automatically he smiled, rolled over in bed, ran a hand back through his hair.

“Mischa, you,” he said, and had to swallow, “you called me _baby_.”

Mischa spluttered; Sascha smiled, imagining the color of his brother’s face as he struggled to regain mental footing.

“I – shut up. Are you okay?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Do you need me?" 

“I always need you,” said Sascha, and bit off his own words, _come over, please, I can’t sleep without you_. “Can you just – stay on the phone with me for a little bit? You can’t leave your house, she’s going to know.”

“Of course,” said Mischa, and Sascha heard mild rustling noise in the background as Mischa stole through his house into a quiet corner where he could speak without risk of being eavesdropped. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come over?”

“No, I’m not sure,” said Sascha, “but don’t. You could never get away with it if she woke up and you were gone.”

Mischa laughed. “This is weird, Sash. I’m supposed to be the rational one here.”

“But here you are, calling me pet names and sneaking out of your room in the middle of the night just to talk to me,” said Sascha cheerfully. He yawned, stretched, one hand tracing a comfortable conduit down his abdomen; he had finally gained some weight back and the feel of his own musculature reassured him. In his head, war chant: _I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay_.

“Good point.”

“I’m alone, though, you know,” said Sascha casually. “It’s just me and Lövik. If you came over we could do anything and no one would have a clue.”

“ _Sash_.” Mischa’s voice was strained, tortured. “You literally just told me not to come. What do you want from me?” 

“Nothing,” said Sascha, innocent. “Just to listen to you talk. It calms me down.”

“Uh huh.”

“Try to act like you believe me at least a little.”

Mischa bit into the cuticle of his left thumbnail to stop himself groaning. The next night they would be in Perth together, only Jez and Ivan with them in the massive house they’d rented until Alex and Irina arrived several days later, and he knew that their presence wouldn’t be enough to quell the temptation of going to Sascha’s room at midnight. He’d been thinking about it more and more frequently over the past several days, their departure looming like a treeshadow in sinking afternoon sunlight, always closer.

“If you say you want nothing from me I won’t believe you, because it’s never true.”

Sascha’s voice rolled with sly mirth. “ _Sometimes_ it’s true.”

“Give me one example.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Mischa, but he was grinning in spite of himself. “Where are you? Your room?”

“Yes,” said Sascha, rolling languorously onto his side. “I can’t fucking fall asleep. I took meds and everything.”

“Is your fan on?”

“Yeah.”

“Boring TV show?”

“Excuse the fuck out of you, _The Office_ is not boring.”

“Okay, but you’ve seen it a million times,” said Mischa, so much fond in his voice he was surprised there was no accompanying sweet taste. “That should be your lullaby by now.” 

“It usually is,” grumbled Sascha. “Not tonight." 

Mischa hesitated before he spoke but the mindset was there and he was half-hard thinking about it and he knew Sascha would banter with him.

“What about tomorrow?”

Sascha paused with his finger dipping into his navel. 

“Tomorrow. We fucking leave tomorrow.”

Mischa kept his voice amused to cover his interest. “Yeah, are you packed?” 

Sascha said, “Do you know me at all?” which Mischa knew meant that he hadn’t even started.

“You’re helpless.” 

“That’s widely available information,” said Sascha, and then they were both laughing, easy. When Sascha yawned again Mischa pounced on him, half an excuse to keep himself from slipping.

“You need to sleep now, Sash.”

“I don’t want to,” said Sascha, and his voice was a pout. “I want to stay on the phone with you. I feel like I never get to talk to you anymore without someone listening to every word we say.”

“Sascha, you _called me so you could sleep_ ,” said Mischa, exasperated, amused. “You’re tired, you have Hopman Cup in like five days. Rest.”

“I am resting.”

“Are you,” said Mischa, and then before he could stop himself, because he had to know, he said, “are you wearing my shirt?” 

“Yeah,” said Sascha, low. “The new one, though, the one I took from your house when I napped over there last week. Still haven’t washed the other one.”

Mischa thought of the scent, their combined musk, and felt his cock throb once, sharply. “How that must smell.”

Sascha chuckled. “Smells like our bedsheets in the Maldives. Starting to fade a little bit, but you can’t miss it.”

Mischa swore.

“The hoodie still smells like you, too.”

“Fuck,” said Sascha, and closed his eyes. At his feet Lövik huffed, shifted, rolled over in his sleep. “Is that gross? That I haven’t washed it?”

“Probably,” said Mischa, “but not to me.” He wanted to say _I miss your smell_ , wanted to say _I miss the way you smell on me_ , but he couldn’t.

“Good,” said Sascha, “because it’s not to me, either. Mischa…”

“Yeah.”

“ _Tomorrow_.”

“I know, Sash,” said Mischa, and up his spinal column a current of heat writhed. “That house is massive. It’ll be like we’re alone.”

The thought made Sascha’s lower belly ache with burgeoning want. Without Evgeniya or their parents present, there would be no one to hold them accountable. Jez and Ivan did their own thing ninety percent of the time; they were always around for court time and workouts and family dinners, but the rest of the day they were free to do whatever they pleased, and usually they didn’t interfere with whatever Sascha and Mischa chose to do in their own empty hours. Mischa had been holding his ground spectacularly well while his wife was nearby – out of respect? Fear? Sascha wasn’t sure – but without her around Sascha could only imagine what might happen. His own boundaries were negligible to begin with when it came to Mischa and he understood that the next several days held nothing but prospect for them both. 

*

Sascha slept later than he had planned, woke up sprawled on his stomach with his phone tucked under his chin; he’d finally drifted off listening to Mischa tell him about the time they’d gone fishing off a pier in California with Alex and caught only jellyfish all day. Mischa had disconnected when Sascha had fallen asleep, but he had texted Sascha as soon as he had hung up:

_See you tomorrow, brat. Love you._

And, five minutes later:

_Don’t you dare miss your alarms because I am not helping you pack tomorrow._

_Love you too,_ Sascha texted back, and then his eyes fell on the time and he vaulted out of bed. As it happened he had only slept through two of his alarms but still he found himself scrambling as he rushed through the house like a typhoon, throwing things haphazardly into his suitcase with one eye always on the time, frenetic. Lövik trotted around at his heels, barking happily; he didn’t seem to mind Sascha when he was like this, bullish and swearing and discombobulated. By now he knew very well that this sort of behavior likely meant that he was going for a trip, and he was always more than ready to go along for the ride. 

By the time Sascha had finished gathering enough of his things to sustain him for a couple of weeks on the road he had just enough time left to perform his basic hygiene routine and he hurled himself into the shower, rinsed off as quickly as he could, swallowed two suppressants dry. He was just jumping into his favorite pair of travel sweatpants when Mischa texted him. Though they had spent half the previous night on the phone with one another they had not been together for a day and a half and Sascha was starting to feel the tension, raw like a scrape at his nerve endings.

_Are you ready?  
_

_Yes._

_Leaving now. Meet you at the airport._

Mischa was waiting in front of security when Sascha bulldozed through the entryway with his massive cart of luggage. Across the melee of travelers their eyes clicked hot as a brand and Sascha had to repel the urge to sprint to him, tackle him to the floor. From the set of Mischa’s shoulders Sascha could tell that he, too, was restraining himself, and when at last they stood in front of each other Mischa’s scent raided Sascha’s nostrils like a smog. He was happy, and scared, and _tense_. They looked at each other uncertain and teeming and Sascha said breathlessly, 

“Hi.”

“Hi,” said Mischa, unable to stop the grin that canvassed his face. “Sleep well?”

“Fuck off,” said Sascha, moody, except he wasn’t. “The sooner I get checked in, the sooner we get coffee.”

“I’ll make an addict of you yet,” said Mischa cheerfully, and he followed Sascha over to the airline check-in desk, although he had just been there himself. By the time they made it through security they were both more relaxed than they had been in days and Mischa knew it was because there wasn’t a single soul in their immediate circle around to observe them.

“I’m sleeping this whole plane ride,” said Sascha, yawning, as they stood in line for coffee. Mischa was reminded powerfully of their trip to the Maldives.

“Me too,” he said. “I need to catch up.”

“What, have you been losing sleep thinking about me?”

“At least half the time, yeah,” said Mischa with his face totally impassive, and Sascha snorted. 

“Only half? Geez, I need to work on my seduction techniques.”

Mischa bit into his cheek to check his smile. “You’re impossible.” 

“It’s what you like most about me,” said Sascha, and turned his head to smirk down into Mischa’s eyes. Under the burden of recent and current events his snark had of late been curbed monstrously and Mischa hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the acidity in Sascha’s banter until it had disappeared. He arced his eyebrows.

“ _You_ came to play.”

“Yeah, well. Sarcasm works out the stress,” said Sascha, winking. “You think Jez and Ivan will be there when we get to the house?”

“God help us if they aren’t,” muttered Mischa without thinking, and Sascha choked, laughed aloud. The sound was so genuine Mischa’s chest constricted for it; he hadn’t heard Sascha this happy in ages. After a pause Sascha said low,

“Thought we weren’t doing that anymore.”

Mischa looked sideways, held his gaze for half a powerful second. “Because we’re so great at that.”

“Thank fuck,” said Sascha candidly, and it was Mischa’s turn to laugh.

“You’re different, Sash. Back to normal.” 

“Because I’m finally with you,” said Sascha, ducking his head to find Mischa’s eyes again; when Mischa dropped his gaze Sascha reached out to tilt Mischa’s chin up, force eye contact. “Alone.”

The air between them _thrived_ with voltage; Mischa searched Sascha’s eyes, swallowed. “Except we’re surrounded by people.” 

Sascha swiped a subtle thumb under Mischa’s jaw before he pulled back, looked away. “So? They don’t know us. Dad would go into fucking cardiac arrest if he saw you looking at me like that.”

Mischa raised his eyebrows. “Or _you_ looking at _me_ like that.”

“Exactly,” said Sascha. By now they were almost at the counter and he hitched his bag over his shoulder, squinted up at the board like he didn’t know exactly what he was going to order. “My point is I can touch you a little without worrying about Evi walking through the door, or Dad looking at us sideways. You know?”

“I know,” said Mischa, and he breathed out hard. “But we can’t know that people won’t recognize us. We can’t – we have to be careful.”

“Can’t what,” breathed Sascha, dropping one big warm hand onto the base of Mischa’s neck, and Mischa froze but then the line was moving and he was saved the awkwardness of having to explain to Sascha what he already knew: that they couldn’t be all over each other in public, not without potentially causing a press riot.

*

The first leg of their trip was short as a blink; they had an hour layover in Qatar before the real haul began. Had they been awake for it their second flight would have been agony but they tucked themselves into their little first-class cabin and pulled the curtain, passed out within the first hour. The thought that they were secluded in their own area of the plane was not lost on either of them but Sascha was so exhausted that he couldn’t stay awake long enough to do a thing about it. They both woke up to eat dinner, walk around the plane a couple of times when they got restless, but for the most part Sascha stayed knocked out and Mischa if he was not asleep read or rested his eyes. When Sascha stirred he reached over to stroke hair off his forehead, run a hand down his bare forearm; sometimes Sascha would open his eyes and smile sleepily at Mischa and the warmth between them would crackle anew.

When they hit ground it was five pm in Perth and Sascha’s phone blew up. Ivan was stuck in a snowstorm in Ostrava, but Jez had just gotten to the rental house, and he wanted to know their movements immediately. Sascha and Mischa had both slept so much on the plane that they couldn’t imagine trying to go to bed at any kind of decent hour that night so they rented a car and took their stuff to the massive house to meet up with him, plan an evening out. As they drove Mischa watched Sascha’s face and marveled at the transformation in him: his skin was flush with color, all aglow, and his eyes were clear and alert. He looked like he’d been swimming in the fountain of youth.

“You needed that sleep,” he said, and Sascha grinned.

“It wasn’t bad.”

When they arrived at the rental property they both swore over how huge it was; year after year they stayed in the same one but its magnitude never failed to shock them. Sascha ran through the house getting reacquainted with its subtleties while Mischa went outside to find Jez, already hanging over the side of the pool with a beer in his hand.

“Man,” he said, grinning when he saw Mischa walking over, “I’ve missed this place. What’s up?”

“What’s up is we just spent like an entire day on a plane,” said Mischa, beaming back as he walked over to smack Jez’s palm in greeting. “Good flight?”

“Yeah, not bad. Not as long as yours,” said Jez, sliding his shades down over his sunblocked nose. “Still too much, though. You guys good, you want to go out? Sleep enough?”

“Enough for like two days,” said Mischa. “Sash was out of it practically the whole time. Ivan’s not gonna be in tonight, he couldn’t get out of Ostrava.”

“Ah, yeah, that snowstorm,” said Jez, sucking his teeth. “Pity. He wouldn’t let Sash go as hard as I will, though, so maybe it’s for the best.”

Mischa thought of Sascha’s eyes, how they went sleepy when he got drunk. “True. I’m gonna take a shower before we get out of here, but I’m starving and I’m sure he is too. Do some research and find a place, yeah?” 

“Already on it,” said Jez, and he held up his phone. “Pick a good room before Ivan gets here, you know he always grabs the best one.”

He was not wrong. In the short amount of time Ivan had been coaching Sascha he had shown a penchant for the lavish, and when they all stayed in the same rental house he tended to migrate towards the biggest rooms with the most elaborate layouts, domed ceilings and claw-footed tubs, showers big enough to stretch three people lengthwise. Mischa didn’t care which room he got as long as it was close enough to Sascha’s to sneak into in the middle of the night without sounding any alarms and the second the thought crossed his mind he felt his face begin to flame.

He left Jez to his search for food and drink and wandered back into the house; when he slid the screen door shut behind him he stood in the silence and listened for Sascha, who was still whirling through the house in pursuit of the room he would deem worthy for this year’s stay. Sascha liked rooms with grand views and wide sunny windows, a balcony if at all possible, and for two years in a row he had chosen to dwell on the house’s highest floor, the back room with the tiny overlook extending over the garden. Sometimes Mischa would join him at dawn, before the rest of the house was up, and they would sit with their mugs and look out at the sun and simply exist together in quiet.

Mischa went to the bottom of the stairs and called up softly, his brother’s name like white lace on his tongue.

“Sascha.”

“Up here,” Sascha sang back, and Mischa tracked the sound of his voice to the middle floor, where he found him settling into the room at the far left of the hallway. Mischa leaned on the doorframe, folded his arms over his chest, smiled as he watched Sascha at the window.

“This is different for you, Sash.”

Sascha turned and a blunted slash of sunlight threw his face into high canary color.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, and flushed harshly. “I wanted, you know, a change.”

Mischa’s eyes went narrow for his tone. “You did.” 

“I’m only a creature of habit sometimes, Meesh,” said Sascha, and quirked a thick blonde eyebrow. “Where are you thinking of laying claim? Pick before Ivan gets here or he’ll take the best room.”

“Jez said the same thing,” said Mischa, laughing. “But I don’t actually care. I was waiting for you to pick, as it happens.” 

Sascha’s face wiped and his eyes went soft. “You were?”

“Mmhmm.” Mischa pressed his lips together, knowing his eyes were full of gold. “So have you made your choice?”

“Yes,” said Sascha. “Here. The other room is - not situated well.”

Mischa understood immediately; Sascha’s old quarters had been positioned directly over Irina and Alex’s bedroom, and they had mentioned in passing more than one time that they could hear him when he walked around above them. Sascha was afraid that they might be able to overhear Mischa if he came to him.

“I thought that might be it.” 

Sascha stretched his arms over his head, casual, but Mischa’s eyes fell like they’d been lured to the panel of skin that showed itself above Sascha’s waistband. The kilos he had put back on had not gone to his waist and his hips were lithe and lean and Mischa wanted to lick every inch of that exposed stripe. 

“I’m just being cautious. Since I haven’t been able to sleep I’ll probably be up a lot, you know, don’t want to disturb them,” said Sascha, and Mischa shook his head at him and then they were both grinning sheepishly because they knew, they knew, they knew what would happen. Mischa understood that Sascha was being cautious with his optimism and he wanted to clarify, wanted to tell him that he would not be able to stay away, but he loved surprises and he knew that Sascha would lose his mind if Mischa showed up unannounced after seemingly retiring to his own room that night so he stayed silent. For days he had known what he was going to do, had been thinking of Sascha beneath him mewling and whining, and now that they were here his conviction was even stronger. He had been keeping Sascha waiting for far too long and they had said _we can’t keep doing this_ but they were doing it anyway; even if it was the PG version, they hadn’t tried to stop, not at all. Aloud he said,

“Keep telling yourself that, Sash,”

Before he winked and withdrew from the doorway.

Sascha watched him go with his mouth parchment-dry and his stomach hot. There was something in Mischa’s eyes he couldn’t explain away, not in any of his three languages, and he had no idea what was in Mischa’s head. He crossed to the mirror, pulled his collar down so he could trace fingernails over his bruises. It was too hot in Perth to wear a hoodie and fuck it if Jez saw, he wouldn’t question a thing, he was an Omega and he was the most open person Sascha had ever met when it came to sexual escapades. If he noticed the marks at all it was in his nature to do nothing but congratulate Sascha on the sex, smack him on the back, ask him if it was good.

In the room next door Sascha heard the shower turn on and resisted the urge to wander into Mischa’s domain. To distract himself he took his own shower, quick and cold, eyed himself in the mirror. He reasoned that he had behaved well enough over the past several weeks to warrant a deviance from the norm so he wore a short-sleeve button down, open at the neck to display his throat, golden chains gleaming against his chest. The intense remnants of Mischa’s bitemarks had faded substantially but several of the more serious ones remained and Sascha knew he was playing with fate to go out in public like this but he didn’t care. He wanted to drive Mischa insane and he was willing to deal with a few sideways glances to make that happen.

When he walked into the kitchen Mischa and Jez were both there, leaning on their respective counters and parrying back and forth about where to go for dinner, and when Mischa saw what Sascha was wearing he nearly choked on his own saliva.

“ _Saaaaash_ ,” said Jez approvingly, after he’d taken a good look at him, “you had a good heat this year, yeah?”

Sascha laughed out loud, dropped his head back so Jez couldn’t see the immediate reflexive expression that crossed his face.

“You could say that.”

“Not with Marcelo, I take it?”

“No,” said Sascha, shrugging, “not with Marcelo. Someone new.”

“Someone we’re gonna be seeing a lot more of, by the looks of things?” Jez’s eyes were all too knowing.

“Eh. Maybe.” Sascha shrugged, already steps ahead of him, prepared. “I didn’t get bitten during my heat, Jez, Jesus. You think I could deal with a bond right now, when I’m peaking? Even I’m more responsible than that.”

“Good man,” said Jez, and that was that. Over the island counter Mischa met Sascha’s gaze and the lust haze there was all too familiar.

With no authoritative supervision to curb their impulses they went out for a drink before dinner; though Sascha knew it was not wise to toss a double whiskey into his empty stomach, he did it anyway. In the dying brutality of the summer air they sat outside, clamoring for sun, heat, life, and all the while Sascha’s focus was predominantly on Mischa, gaze wandering with decreasing subtlety to his brother’s face as he finished his drink. Jez, as per the norm, was jovial and hilarious as he told them all about his holiday, how he’d hooked up with an Omega in Belize and had to do everything in his power to keep from marking her.

“Don’t wanna get tied down, you know,” he said, grinning at Sascha as he said it, eyes landing too-long on his faintly discolored throat. “Looks like you’re on your way.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jez,” said Sascha good-naturedly. “Bites feel just as good outside of a heat.”

“How would you know,” said Jez, eyes glittering, “if you’ve never been bitten during one?”

Sascha’s face bloomed, slow coloration of maroon.

“It’s what I hear,” he said, shrugging, checking the evasiveness in his tone. “Everyone has their thing.”

Jez smirked, miscreant.

“Being bitten is yours?”

Mischa choked on his old fashioned; Sascha thumped him on the back and Jez laughed out loud.

“Sorry, Meesh, you probably don’t want to know this about your kid brother, eh?”

“I don’t think anyone knows more about Sash than I do, Jez,” said Mischa frankly, and Sascha’s free hand jumped frantic to his chest so he could braid his fingers through the chains, comfort blanket. “So you didn’t end up biting her?”

“Nah,” said Jez, draining his glass, wholly ignorant of the sudden rise in tension surrounding them. He was an animal, he could drink you under the table at two am and be awake at six lifting in the gym with no outward sign of distress. “More self control than that. Sash, it wasn’t that girl your dad’s been after you to get with who gave you those bruises eh? Olga, or whatever?”

“Olya,” said Mischa, leashing himself, conscious of the strain of his jaw. “And no. I’d never let him. She’s the worst.”

“She’s not really my type,” said Sascha evenly, dodging Mischa’s eyes so they couldn’t give a thing away. “Like, at all. More drinks or are we going somewhere to eat?”

“We can stay,” said Mischa, because he was feeling reckless. Over the table their eyes clicked and the intent in Mischa’s face made Sascha’s belly burn. “This will be our last chance to properly drink for a long time.”

“Proud of you, Meesh,” said Jez, grinning. “Shall we drink, then, really drink? Eat later so we can reap the benefits?”

“Yes,” said Sascha, with force. He didn’t look at Mischa again but something in the set of his shoulders altered and just like that, glass-clear, Mischa could see exactly what was going to happen as the evening progressed.

Once, just once, his heartbeat tripped. Then he threw back the remainder of his drink and smacked the glass down on the table and stood up.

“I’ll get the next round.”

*

For some time they lingered in the blossoming night air, drinking slow, boisterous and happy and relaxed because what reason would Jez ever have to suspect them, how could he know? When Sascha folded his arms on the table in front of him Mischa was there to lean into his side, all warm skin, intent behind his every motion. Still Sascha doubted him because how could he not, after everything that had happened? He would have given anything for Mischa to touch him again, give him more than just chaste robbed kisses and the safe heat of his body when Sascha could not sleep, but he knew why Mischa refrained from taking things further. 

The lack of resistance in his eyes now was startling.

When the sky had blown full sapphire, observant moon and dazzling platinum stars, they left the nameless bar for a nameless club. Sascha was drunk and careless and he walked with one arm looped across Mischa’s broad shoulders and they were all laughing, laughing, light. Once they’d shoved their way up to the bar, gotten a replenishment of alcohol, Jez disappeared to pursue some new flight of fancy, and just like that Sascha and Mischa were left to their own devices. It felt like danger; it felt like flame. 

Mischa brought his glass to his mouth, licked moodily at the ice cube settled against the rim. His eyes wandered, flighty, landing anywhere but Sascha’s face. 

“You wore that shirt,” he said, low, “just to drive me insane.”

Sascha smirked like a devil.

“Did it work?”

Mischa’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. 

“What do you think?”

“Don’t know,” said Sascha casually, and under normal circumstances his hands might shake but he was made of ethanol courage and frustration and _want_. “Wish you’d just tell me.”

Mischa looked sideways at him then and Sascha didn’t have to see his expression to interpret the need in him.

“You’re killing me, Sascha.”

“Yeah?” Sascha was smirking, triumphant. “Good.”

Mischa growled.

“I fucking knew you did it on purpose."

“I do everything on purpose,” said Sascha, and then he shifted sideways so he could face Mischa straight on, hip against the bar, intrusive.

Mischa swallowed clearly. “Everything?”

Sascha studied his face and knew what he was asking, _did you know what you were doing, did you want all of it._ He was sick of hiding.

“Everything.”

And then, before he could face the consequences of his words, he pushed off from the bar and wandered away into the undulating warmth of the crowd.

In the strobe-light glow of the dance floor they lost themselves, free; neither of them could do much when it came to dancing so they just jumped together and yelled and drank and all of it was joy. If they were recognized not a single soul approached them and Mischa got as close to Sascha as he dared and at one point there was nothing to keep them from kissing but a centimeter or two. When Sascha exhaled Mischa inhaled him and the luminous iniquity in Sascha’s eyes was impossible.

“Do you think,” he said, with his forehead brushing gently to Mischa’s, “we shouldn’t do this?”

And Mischa said low, wrapping his fingers in Sascha’s golden chains,

“Fuck it. Fuck it.”

It was midnight. Neither of them were sober and the world was smudges and sounds and heat. Mischa pushed his fingerprints gently into Sascha’s reducing bruises and Sascha mewled aloud.

“I can’t hide them here.”

“It’s been long enough,” said Mischa slowly, leaning in to press his mouth to Sascha’s ear so he could hear him over the music, “that you can get away with it. You’re gorgeous, Sascha.”

“Mischa, I want to kiss you,” said Sascha, subtlety ruined by ethanol. “I need to. I want - I want you all over me.”

Mischa shuddered. He shoved his hips forward briefly into Sascha’s own; he was reckless and hard and he wanted Sascha to know, to understand the damage he could do. He didn’t think Sascha realized the depth of his own power.

“I want to be all over you. I think about it, Sash,” and here Mischa cut his gaze away, black-eyed from want, “all the time.”

“What, Meesh,” hissed Sascha, teeth hooking over his lower lip. “What do you think about.”

Mischa looked back at him. He loved Sascha like this, bold, demanding what he needed; he was like this in heat and Mischa couldn’t get the image of Sascha on all fours for him out of his mind.

“You,” he said, low, his tongue flicking out to brush over Sascha’s inner ear. “How fucking good it feels to be inside of you with you wrapped all around me and moaning for it. How it feels when you come down my throat. The way my name sounds in your mouth when I’m pounding you so hard neither of us can even think.”

Sascha’s hands flew up automatically to grab Mischa’s waist.

“You can’t talk to me like this in public,” he said, and his voice was raw-ruined, shaky. “You can’t - you’ve barely touched me since Berlin, I - “

“Sascha, if you think for a second,” said Mischa fiercely, “that I haven’t wanted to come to you every single night, then you are more wrong than you have ever been.”

Sascha was so hard he was aching.

“You said no,” he said, fingers clutching at Mischa’s stark hipbones. “You said we can’t.”

“I know what I said,” said Mischa gently. By now they weren’t dancing at all, stock-still amidst the melee of dark writhing humanity. “It was never, ever what I meant.”

Sascha stared at him for a moment. Then he growled in frustration, looked around them; Mischa knew he was searching for privacy, but there was none. The air was so dark and no one was paying them any mind, all lost in their own little pieces of the dance floor, and it was not safe but Mischa did not care. He took one of Sascha’s hands from where it rested on his waist and slid it up under his shirt, pressed it to the heat of his lower belly. They were so close it would have been impossible for any drunk bystander to see what they were doing.

Sascha breathed out.

“You’ve wanted to come to me every night?”

“Yes,” said Mischa, and he smiled, jesting. “God, Sash, I would have thought that was clear enough.”

Sascha snorted. “You’ve been with me a lot lately,” he said. “But you haven’t tried anything. Why?”

“Because you’re my little brother and I’m still trying to protect you,” said Mischa automatically. “You’re not in heat anymore. I took care of you when you needed me, and you don’t anymore. It wouldn’t be right.”

Sascha threw his head back and laughed into the furious noise of the club, bulled down into Mischa’s space, exasperated. “Sometimes you’re so fucking clueless, Mischa, you know that? Can you feel how hard I am or what? You still think I don’t need you?”

Mischa’s mouth swung abruptly open; he felt his cock _throb_. “Sash – ”

“Shut up,” said Sascha, and he cupped Mischa’s jaw in his hands, leaned in and nuzzled their foreheads recklessly together. Mischa was too drunk to care that they shouldn’t be doing this in public and his first instinct was to lick into Sascha’s open mouth but he was conscious of their surroundings and held himself back. “You don’t get to tell me what I need. You gave me everything and then took it away and made me watch while you gave it to someone else. You don’t have a say because you know what we _both_ need and you won’t admit it to yourself.”

Mischa understood exactly, immediately, what he meant, but Sascha had never been more spot-on with his interpretation of Mischa’s actions because he _couldn’t_ admit it to himself, _couldn’t_ look himself in the eye in his bathroom mirror in the morning and think, _I have a soul bond with my little brother._ Not without wanting to liquefy into the ground in shame. 

“Sash, what am I supposed to do,” he whispered, powerless, and Sascha shook his head. His voice when it erupted from his throat was bitter and honest, more so than he’d been for days.

“More than this.”

Mischa opened his mouth to speak, closed it, looked away as though the corner of the club could tell him the correct thing to say. When he unearthed nothing he looked back into Sascha’s eyes and sighed, massively, a harsh thing that swept through his entire body. Then he said, 

“I know,”

Because he did, and they both knew it, and there was nothing else _to_ say, not after everything that had happened between then and Berlin. What Sascha was saying stung, but Mischa was glad that he was at last being honest, admitting what he needed to admit: that he _was_ hurt, that Mischa _wasn’t_ doing his job, that he required a hundred times more than what he was being given. It felt like they had lived a lifetime over since Sascha’s heat had begun; the _before_ and _after_ could not have been more clear.

Sascha smiled sadly.

“I know you do. We’ve already talked about this, I’m drunk, I’m just being dramatic. I can’t help but want you all to myself, you know? It sucks that I can’t have you.”

Mischa loathed the fact that Sascha felt like he had to make light of the situation.

“No,” he said, heavy. “I want to know. I want you to tell me. You need to talk to me about this.”

Sascha exhaled, little caustic laugh. “Are you sure you want that?”

“No,” said Mischa, because he wasn’t, he was terrified, everything was confirming the bond and he didn’t know how to breathe when he thought about it. “But it doesn’t matter. We _should_ talk about it, Sash. I have to know what you need from me. I can’t stand to see you miserable, it makes me realize how much I’m not fucking taking care of you.”

“You know what I need from you, Meesh,” said Sascha, and his eyes were dark, direct. “Everything you’ve been doing over the past few days, like the cuddling and the kissing and stuff - I mean, that’s definitely helping. I don’t feel like a living dead person anymore.”

“That’s good,” said Mischa, low. The air was hot between them. “But.”

Sascha grinned, truly this time, impious slash across his cheeks. “Yeah, _but_. There’s a huge _but_. I can’t keep fucking my own hand while you watch me on a phone screen, Mischa. I’m going insane just being in a goddamn room with you. I wake up hard every time we nap together. You tell me what I need.”

Unbidden Mischa thought of Sascha wrapped around him with his hips rolling eyes clamped shut brow furrowed and he had to bite the back of his knuckles to stop from rumbling in frustration. His skin was live-wire sensitive and the club was suddenly too close around him; to block out the sound he let his fingernails bite harshly into the calloused skin of his palms.

“FaceTime sex doesn’t cut it for you, huh.”

“Does it for you?”

The words were a challenge and Mischa rose to it, Herculean.

“Sascha, I haven’t been able to come without thinking of you since before your heat.”

Sascha cracked his neck to one side, closed his knowing eyes, smiled. The satisfaction in his face made Mischa’s stomach ache. He kept forgetting where they were; it was all he could do to force awareness upon himself. When Sascha spoke his voice was rust. 

“Then why do you keep getting off without me?”

Mischa couldn’t give him an answer that he didn’t already know. As it stood now nothing he could say about why he continued to stay away, besides the obvious, made sense in his head and he was out of excuses; anyway there was no reason for him to keep making them because Sascha knew him inside and out and Mischa couldn’t hide a thing from him. He had tried to leave Sascha alone for propriety’s sake and all it had done was nearly kill them both. Now the inevitable just felt like a matter of time.

*

At some point they found Jez, dragged him away from his latest conquest to the neighboring late-night pizza joint, took a couple of pies to go and ate them straight from the box in the Uber home. When they arrived back at the house it was three am and Mischa was still half drunk and he couldn’t stop touching Sascha, his shoulder, the scruff of his neck, his low back. Sascha was acutely aware of all of it and he ached for Mischa to give in to himself but all he in good conscience could do was wait for him to arrive at the point of no return on his own. He had done enough by way of swaying his brother into immorality.

Jez was still awake on the couch when Sascha went up to bed, having lingered for as long as he deemed appropriate. Mischa watched him ascend the stairs with a hundred conflicts in his heart and when he followed twenty minutes later he stood in the hallway staring at Sascha’s closed door for a solid five minutes before he turned and walked into his own room, shut himself away. Through his open window the moon glared at him, sad eyes all accusation and mockery.

He washed his face, scrubbed his teeth, stripped to his boxers. Climbed under the covers and lay prone on his back with his eyes shock-open and his edges still smudged from alcohol, wishing for sleep that did not come. All the while his head was focused on one thing: Sascha.

Ten minutes passed; fifteen. Mischa turned his head to the side and locked eyes with that disappointed man in the moon, thought of Sascha’s face when he’d said _I can’t keep fucking my hand on a phone screen_. Then he threw the covers off and stalked to his door and wrenched it open. The quiet black that met him was a shock; he was such a tempest inside that he expected all the world to reflect it, because how could there be such stillness when he was only madness? Before he could reconsider what he was doing he crossed the hallway to Sascha’s room, knocked once, barely paused for an answer before he let himself in.

It was time he gave Sascha what he truly needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFFHANGERS YUH. I originally intended to include, uh, what comes next in this chapter but I wanted to get this out here for you guys because it's been way too long. Good news is that like half of that next chapter is already written, and it's...a doozy.


	17. Chapter 17

In Sascha’s room, it was full dark.

He was reclining in bed staring mechanically at the ceiling when Mischa entered; upon realizing what was happening he raised himself easily onto his elbows, surprise etched everywhere on his face. Mischa hesitated in the doorway scraping mercilessly at his fingernails, determined but terrified, searching Sascha’s eyes; he looked as though he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Hi,” said Sascha, uncertain.

“Hi,” said Mischa, and he closed the door soundlessly behind him, crossed to the window, cracked the blinds so silvery slices of moonlight reached through. Sascha watched him, honed, adrenaline screaming through his blood; he could smell heavy rich lust on his brother’s scent and immediately understood why Mischa had come. He sat up, maneuvered to the side of the bed closest to the window, threw his legs over the side. Mischa felt the air stir like it had been wind-whipped and his hackles didn’t have to rise for him to know that Sascha was standing mere inches behind him.

He slid a shaky hand down the open blinds just for something to do, a place to lend his focus other than Sascha’s proximity, and of course it didn’t help in the slightest. When he turned his head to the side Sascha was there, silent as a phantom, but the force of his scent was loud, loud, loud. He was excited, and nervous, and _unbelievably_ horny because he knew that there could be no other reason for Mischa to be in his room at three am, and Mischa could taste all of that in his scent. They were both still half-drunk and mad for want and Sascha felt like his stomach would melt with heat. Their recent lack of intimacy had never been so obvious.

Slow, soft, Sascha placed one hand on each of Mischa’s shoulderblades, leaned down, dropped a ghostlike kiss to the back of his neck. Mischa shuddered.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” said Sascha, low against Mischa’s skin.

Mischa chuckled and it was _all_ dark. “How much of a cliché is it that I needed alcohol and three am to clear my conscience enough for this?”

“Nothing about us is cliché,” said Sascha, licking luxuriantly along the bronzed side of Mischa’s neck, up into the conch of his ear. His next words were hushed and raw and they turned Mischa on so much he was immediately paralyzed, burning with his own sin. “Big brother.”

Mischa growled, spun around, pulled Sascha in by the waist so their hips were flush. Sascha was rock hard and Mischa could smell the need in him. The Alpha in Mischa’s core arose like a tidal wave, destructive, all-powerful, something he could not curtail.

“You told me on Baros,” he said roughly, “that you were mine, that you’d always been mine.”

“Yes,” breathed Sascha, knocking his forehead hard to Mischa’s own, mouth open breath coming sharp in his chest. Wanting. They were a thread-thin line away from kissing but Mischa abstained, hard for the anticipation, crazed. Teasing, cajoling, he rubbed his face against Sascha’s own and said,

“Did you mean it?” 

Sascha smiled, shut his eyes, disbelieving. His hands fluttered at his sides before settling, one threaded through Mischa’s haphazard curls, the other cupped at the scruff of his neck.

“You really have to ask?”

“I just want,” said Mischa raggedly, “to hear you say it.”

“Fine, then,” said Sascha, fervent. “Yes, I’m fucking yours, Mischa, all of me is yours. You could do anything to me and I’d lose my goddamned mind for it. Whose bruises are all over my skin right now, huh? Whose?” 

“Mine,” said Mischa in a rush, and then he surged up and crashed his lips to Sascha’s and they were kissing like they’d needed to since Berlin, since the last time they’d properly been together, like the other was necessary to life. And that was true, Sascha thought, because he knew that regardless of how they’d been dodging the subject no bloodwork was needed for the question that had been hovering over both their heads for days. Mischa was Sascha’s Alpha, and Sascha was Mischa’s Omega, and there was nothing that either of them could do about it.

There was nothing that Sascha _wanted_ to do about it. 

For some time they stayed like that, kissing so deeply they both lost their heads for it, not the smallest of spaces between them. Eventually Mischa turned Sascha around, got him back against the wall, opened his thighs with one intrusive knee and let Sascha grind down into his leg. Mischa pinned Sascha’s hands at either side of his head, opened his palms and roped their fingers together over and over, bent his head to suckle at Sascha’s neck. Sascha writhed, whimpered; helpless trying to get as much friction as possible against his throbbing cock, his hands opening and closing over Mischa’s own. Mischa kept him trapped firmly against the wall and his cloying musk in Sascha’s nostrils was all Alpha. When Sascha said his name aloud it was a purr, a prayer, a moan all in one.

“Saaaash,” groaned Mischa, and he nipped at the skin of Sascha’s throat, tasted sweat and lust and nerves in his brother’s pheromones, lush. Instinctively Sascha squirmed and Mischa pushed him back, forceful, so he could get his face into Sascha’s armpit and inhale his musk. The scent of him was much fainter than it had been when he’d been in heat but it was enough to make Mischa’s knees go weak.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ.” 

“Yeah?” Sascha was a slut for Mischa’s dominance and his voice was breathless, all need. “Do I smell good?”

“ _Yes_ ,” growled Mischa, and he rucked his hips hard into Sascha’s own. “How can you still smell so fucking _Omega_.”

“Well,” said Sascha, every word like silk, like sin, “it’s hard not to when I have an Alpha all over me.”

He deliberately avoided using possessive terminology; Mischa took note of it and didn’t comment but it shocked him how much he wanted to hear Sascha call him his Alpha. He reminded himself that they wouldn’t know for sure until Sascha’s results came back but it didn’t help; he wasn’t sure entirely what that bond might consist of but right then he didn’t need confirmation, he didn’t care. Sascha belonged to him and he was all that Mischa wanted.

He licked up the line of Sascha’s throat, into his ear, chasing the shudder that writhed down Sascha’s spine. Nestled his forehead across Sascha’s and kissed him heavily enough for them both to go boneless for it, fingers gliding gently between his brother’s own as Sascha dissolved into him. Sascha was grinding needy against Mischa’s crotch and they were both already panting for it, Mischa’s tongue skimming under Sascha’s lower lip as he kept him pinned hard to the wall, and when he reached between them and yanked Sascha’s shorts down Sascha dropped his head back and moaned.

“Fuck,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Fuck, Meesh.” 

“Yeah, Sash, yeah, I know,” said Mischa, incoherent, and then he was pulling Sascha’s cock from the damp front flap of his boxers. Slow, deliberate, he skimmed a familiar thumb over his leaking slit, shuddered for the slickness. Sascha’s eyes were coal, night, raven before they rolled back to show white.

Mischa stroked him once, twice, taking his time so he could feel how Sascha throbbed for him, how precome continued to pour from the crown, so much that Sascha’s entire cock was wet in seconds just from Mischa’s fingers spreading it around. Sascha’s breath was messy and loud and he was shuddering and Mischa was a wreck for him. He pushed forward, closed his mouth over Sascha’s collarbone, low so he could hide any evidence that might appear, and sank his teeth into his little brother’s skin. Sascha hissed, groaned, closed his fingers around Mischa’s forearm.

“I see you haven’t learned _your_ lesson.” 

“No,” growled Mischa into Sascha’s skin, mindless, all Alpha. “I haven’t marked you since your heat. That’s too long.”

Sascha let his head drop back against the wall, triumphant grin slashing his face because what Mischa meant was _you belong to me_. “You’d have me black and blue all the time?”

“How else are you supposed to remember me when I’m not with you?” Mischa’s teeth were urgent, rough, and when he sucked on the fresh red mark he’d left Sascha yelped aloud. “No one else is allowed to touch you. This is how they know, when they see what I’ve done to you.”

“No one else, huh.” Sascha’s voice was a wrecked rasp. He didn’t know how much of Mischa was sane right then, if he’d regret it when the lust between them faded, but he was running with it because he had never needed anything more in his life and finally, finally, Mischa was giving in to him.

“No one,” repeated Mischa forcefully, before he dropped to his knees in front of Sascha and nudged at his furious cock with his nose, “else.” 

Sascha swore for that, couldn’t help it, Mischa would finish him like this. “Christ.” 

“Yeah,” said Mischa, and licked a wet line along the length of Sascha’s cock, tasting the vein, the velvet heat of his skin. “God, you taste so fucking good.”

One of Sascha’s hands was smacked back against the wall, the other curled in Mischa’s hair, and his legs were already unsteady. At Mischa’s words he whimpered aloud.

“You can taste me whenever you want.”

“Don’t tempt me,” said Mischa, rough, and then he swallowed Sascha’s cock whole, pressed his open palms flat to his brother’s hips so he would stay still, because fuck if Mischa was going to let him thrust just yet. It had been weeks and all he wanted was to take his time, savor, indulge both of them for as long as he dared, make Sascha’s vision go black at the frame. What was ten minutes when they’d been waiting days?

Sascha tried, really he did, not to buck his hips forward into Mischa’s throat, but it felt so good that he couldn’t stop himself, he was all instinct and what he wanted was _more_. Mischa had him glued back against the wall, hands huge and rough pasted on Sascha’s skin, and when Sascha moved even the smallest of lengths forward Mischa slammed him back, establishing himself, in charge. After a moment Sascha tried again, keening at the base of his throat, and Mischa popped easily off his cock, swiped his tongue in a jaunty circle around the head.

“No,” he sang, breath a warm whoosh on Sascha’s skin. “No, Sash.”

“ _Mischaaaa_ ,” said Sascha, voice a shameless whine, “you feel so fucking good, I need to cum, it’s been so fucking long since you’ve made me.”

Mischa’s smile was _unholy._

“I know,” he said, “and that’s why I’m going to make it last. You cum when I say you do.”

He closed his lips around the head of Sascha’s cock, sucked salty fluid from his slit, swallowed it. Sascha’s stomach plunged for the sight of him, for the authority in his words, and when he swore aloud he didn’t recognize his own voice.

“ _Fuck_.”

Mischa gave that long, low, satisfied _mmmm_ in his throat and Sascha felt it where it counted. He clenched his teeth, cramped one hand in a tense fist before he got fingers threaded in through Mischa’s curls. There was something in his blood that was seething, bubbling, screaming for Mischa’s control, and he knew it was the Omega in him crying out for his brother’s Alpha.

“Fucking love you like this.”

Mischa’s hands went to Sascha’s ass, kneaded flesh. He pulled off again, licked gently up Sascha’s balls, petted his cock with his face. “Like what.”

“You know,” said Sascha, panting. He was useless, trembly.

“Do I?”

“ _Yes_.” 

“Ah,” said Mischa, and he smirked. “In charge, you mean.”

Sascha groaned. “Whatever you want to call it.”

“That’s what you want?” Mischa was all purr, voice smooth as satin, knowing. He brought the crown of Sascha’s aching cock into his mouth again, sucked it deep-slow, and Sascha completely out of his own control shuddered so hard he felt gooseflesh rising down his _spine._ He clenched his teeth and spat back, words he knew would ruin Mischa all the way through.

“For you to dominate me? Yeah.”

It had the desired effect. Mischa sat back on his haunches, looked up into Sascha’s eyes, punch-dazed.

“Sash... _goddamn_.”

Sascha’s eyes were black stars. “Mmm.” 

Mischa shook his head, once. Then he sprang to his feet, lifted Sascha by the waist so he’d wrap those long golden legs around Mischa’s hips, and carried him to the bed, closing his mouth over Sascha’s open one, slick curious tongues and cracking teeth, _desperate_. Sascha curled around him like a snake to a vine, all limbs and torso, the heat between them planet-core hot. Destructive. Mischa felt everywhere how much Sascha needed this and he wasn’t the only one: all of his nerve endings were aflame, the flow of his blood shrieking Sascha’s name. When they reached the bed Mischa toppled them clumsily atop it, let Sascha stay twined around him for a moment while they kissed and kissed and ground their hips roughly together before he disentangled himself gently to shove Sascha’s legs apart, slink down to settle back between his thighs. The scent of him, sex-sweat and rich need, was strong enough that Mischa shut his eyes, bit his own fist, swore under his breath. Sascha watched him, breath hitched high in his throat, fucked for the look in his eyes. 

Mischa bent his head, licked along the spread cleft of Sascha’s ass all the way up to the tip of his shuddering cock. Unprepared, Sascha bucked his hips and whined; Mischa slid his open palms up Sascha’s torso, pressed fingers into his waist.

“Stay still, Sash,” he whispered against Sascha’s skin, and Sascha curled his toes and sank his teeth into his lower lip to bring himself back to earth.

“Mischa,” he said, powerless, “I don’t know if I can. You don’t know how good you feel.”

“Yes I do,” said Mischa, kissing Sascha’s smooth inner thigh, “because you feel even better to me.” 

He reached up, slid his index finger along the comma curve of Sascha’s swollen lips, and Sascha drew it into his mouth immediately, licked out for Mischa’s middle finger so he’d add them both, and Mischa obeyed. Until his brother’s skin was soaked he suckled, one hand a bracelet around Mischa’s wrist so he could keep him still, all the while watching Mischa rubbing his hips helplessly into the mattress, so hard it was _painful._ When he popped Mischa’s fingers out of his mouth he threw him a look that was both amused and starving. 

“You’re doing my job for me, you know.”

Even through fugue Mischa understood exactly what he meant. “Sash,” he said, too gone to be embarrassed, crooked grin curling across his face. “I can’t help it. You’re hard as fuck for me and you’re vacuuming my brain out through my fingers. But this isn’t about me. It’s about you.”

He swiped his sopping index finger along the crevice between Sascha’s legs, pressed gently inside of him. The whole of Sascha’s body went instantly limp.

“Don’t worry about me.” Mischa’s voice as he licked at the steady pour of precum from Sascha’s slit was tender, laced with devil, and all the while his finger crooked deep in Sascha’s body, exploring him. “Let me take care of you.”

Sascha wriggled down into Mischa’s touch, stimulated from every angle, and even with his mind all haze he thought of his brother’s needs. “What about you?”

Reflexively Mischa licked his lips, shook his dark head. Nuzzled into Sascha’s inner thigh, where a mere shadow of the bite-bruises he’d left days before remained. His voice was scraped raw, brimming with want.

“This is more than enough. Trust me.”

So Sascha closed his mouth and let Mischa take over, let him work a second finger inside of him and quirk the tips against his prostate until he shuddered, mewled. All the while Mischa kept the head of Sascha’s cock between his lips, sucking gentle and gentle and _hard_ in rhythm with the maneuvering of his fingers, and Sascha was destroyed for it. His hands were in Mischa’s hair, gripped on either side of him in the sheets, and at last he couldn’t think to move anymore, it was all just ecstasy. For days, since the last time it had happened, Sascha had dreamed of riding Mischa into the mattress, but he found now that this was just as good, just as fulfilling, because his Alpha was _here_ and with every second that passed he was nursing him back to health. When Sascha exploded down the back of Mischa’s throat, desperate noise staunched by the fingers of Mischa’s free hand in his mouth so Jez wouldn’t hear, he waited for that natural pleasant post-orgasm exhaustion to float through his bones, but instead he felt stronger than he had in days.

Mischa propelled himself up, licked gently into Sascha’s mouth; the taste of himself on Mischa’s tongue would never cease to thrill Sascha to his core. Against his hip Mischa was iron-hard and leaking and automatically Sascha reached between them to run a thumb over the tip; it was so wet as to be indecent. Instantly Sascha’s stomach was warm again.

“Mm.”

“Yeah, _mmm._ ” Mischa’s eyes were ungoverned, tiger-wild. “You’re so fucking hot, Sash, you don’t know.”

“Mischa, what do you need?” Sascha could smell him, how aroused he was, how out of his head with it. He put his forehead to Mischa’s, kissed him so deeply they both groaned. “Take it. I’m yours.”

For half a tempestuous instant Mischa almost, almost, almost gave in to him. He’d gone to Sascha’s door with no other intention than to make him cum, however he needed to do it, but his conscience was still fighting furiously against taking it any further. They had already had sex once outside of Sascha’s heat and Mischa had been craving Sascha’s tightness ever since but his faulty moral compass was _uproarious_ : if they weren’t actually fucking, it was okay; if they weren’t actually fucking, he was just taking care of what Sascha needed and they weren’t doing anything wrong. He tossed his head back, choked out a growl of frustration, and Sascha seized the back of his head and pulled him down so he’d look him in the eye. From his expression Mischa understood that Sascha knew exactly what kind of war he was going through.

“I’m getting really sick,” said Sascha slowly, licking across both of Mischa’s lips so he sucked in a breath, “of explaining to you what _yours_ means.”

Mischa took Sascha’s hand, wrapped it around his cock, alive for the blackness that bloomed in his little brother’s clever eyes. “I know what it means.”

“Do you.”

“It means you’d let me fuck you again,” said Mischa, and he rose to his haunches, one knee on either side of Sascha’s hips, hand still clamped around Sascha’s, over his cock. Over and over Sascha was teasing his thumb along Mischa’s slit and dizzily Mischa thought that, given time, he could probably cum just from that.

“I would,” said Sascha, rough. “But you’re still afraid of me.” 

And with that he began to jerk Mischa in earnest, his eyes growing darker and darker with each stroke. Mischa watched his face, destroyed for him, how beautiful, how commanding, and when he came it was in thick furious spurts all across the amber-olive of Sascha’s chest, the sharp gold glint of his chains. Without breaking eye contact for a second Sascha brought his messy hand to his mouth and licked every last pearl of Mischa’s seed from his skin.

Mischa thought he was going to go insane.

After they’d cleaned up they roped cozily together under Sascha’s blankets, long and warm and thriving, and Mischa whispered into Sascha’s hair,

“It’s not you I’m afraid of.”

Sascha was sleepy, half-gone, but he was curious. “What, then?”

“I’m afraid,” said Mischa cautiously, as though he were handing Sascha a fizzling firecracker, “of how I feel about you.”

A slow smile, full of furious joy, scrawled openly across Sascha’s face. Mischa felt every inch of it, Sascha’s mouth against his chest, and smiled too. Tenderly he traced over the line of Sascha’s throat, his collarbones, along his nose. Sascha’s skin was glowing so radiantly he was practically bioluminescent and it made Mischa’s heart yank.

“It scares me, too,” said Sascha at last, quietly, and it was true, although that fear was spiked with a kind of elation he had never felt before in his life, not before Mischa put burning hands all over his skin. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Sascha’s cheeks were hot. “Thank you. For tonight.”

“Sascha, you don’t have to thank me,” said Mischa in exasperation. “I told you before I should never have made you wait this long in the first place.”

“No, you shouldn’t have, you fucking asshole,” said Sascha, but he was grinning; Mischa snorted, shoved him. “But it was worth the wait.”

“Oh was it.” Mischa pulled Sascha back down to him, tucked his chin atop his brother’s yellow head, let happiness settle into his skin.

“Yeah,” said Sascha nonchalantly, and before he spoke Mischa knew what he was going to say. “But it would have been even better if you’d let me ride you.” 

Mischa groaned aloud, rolled sideways, and they grappled for a moment before he pinned Sascha back against the pillows. He realized with a jolt that he was half hard again and the deviant thought thay they probably could have gone another round with ease snaked through his mind. The knowledge in Sascha’s eyes was sharp as a razor.

“Keep it up, brat.”

“If I did,” said Sascha boldly, reaching between them to knot his fingers in Mischa’s own, “you wouldn’t sleep tonight.”

“Fair point. It’s already three thirty,” said Mischa, sighing aloud. “We’re going to die in the morning.”

“I won’t,” said Sascha, grinning, cheery as a sunrise. “I feel like I’ve just had a spa day. I feel great.”

“Me, too,” admitted Mischa, and he chuckled, an ironic twist of a thing that stuck in Sascha’s head even after the sound faded. Then, before he could check his own traitor tongue: “How long until your bloodwork comes back?”

Sascha shook his head, thrown. “I don’t know. Karthy said a week or two at most.”

Mischa’s heart jumped.

“Is Marcelo up to date?"

Sascha flushed. “Yes.”

“Good,” said Mischa, and he pushed his mouth against Sascha’s damp forehead, clumsy, affectionate. “We need him.”

“I agree,” said Sascha heavily. “I can’t believe he’s so calm about all of this.”

“I know.” Mischa’s first instinct was to raise his eyes skyward but it was all amusement. “He thinks it’s hilarious.”

“We also need that,” said Sascha, burrowing down into Mischa’s chest so he’d draw him in, and he did, threw a thigh over Sascha’s hips, pulled them fully flush. “I’d be a lunatic without him.”

“I’d never have been able to leave you alone in Berlin,” said Mischa. “He’s saving us.”

“Yeah, well,” said Sascha. “He and Lukasz are probably both going to be here for New Year’s. We’ll see how it goes.”

“As long as Dad doesn’t bring that girl and her family along with him,” said Mischa derisively, “I’m fine with anything.”

“God.” Sascha blew out a breath, but he was smiling; he liked Mischa territorial. “That really bothers you.”

“She’s not your Alpha,” said Mischa reflexively, “you’re not hers to claim.”

Sascha looked sideways at him then; Mischa realized what he had said and his face drained slow of pigment. From the quick shift in air-scent Sascha could smell that Mischa’s heart rate had doubled instantly for nerves because he knew what he had said and they both knew exactly what it sounded like.

“I’m not, huh.”

“I mean,” said Mischa, flustered, but he couldn’t explain it in German or English or Russian so he let it drop. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” said Sascha, quietly.

“But,” said Mischa, pressing on to save himself, “you’ll tell me as soon as you find out? About the bloodwork?”

“Of course I will,” said Sascha gently, touching Mischa’s jawline, fingerprint kiss. He tilted his head and when he spoke again his voice was kind.

“Do you think about this a lot?”

“You know I do,” said Mischa. His voice was a mutter and his eyes were flickering everywhere, everywhere but Sascha’s face. “All the time. I feel you in everything, Sash. There’s - it - it seems pretty obvious, you know? But I need to see it, on paper, for myself.”

“Mischa,” said Sascha. His brother’s heart rate was up and he could smell it on him, fear-sweat collecting just beneath the surface of his skin, adrenaline. “We cross bridges when we come to them. Remember?”

“Yes,” said Mischa, and reflexively he leaned down and kissed up the line of Sascha’s throat. Sascha shivered and against his skin Mischa murmured vehemently, “Fuck, I’ve missed this.” 

“No one ever took it away from you,” said Sascha gently, and Mischa chuckled, caustic. 

“Not directly.”

Sascha knew what he meant: their father, the world, because when was Mischa ever allowed to have him anyway? He tucked two fingers under Mischa’s chin, leveled his gaze. 

“Never forget,” he said, low, “that I gave myself to you, and that’s the only thing that matters.” 

They fell asleep kissing, Mischa’s thigh curled over Sascha’s hips, Sascha’s fingers woven through Mischa’s curls. Neither of them set an alarm. Until Ivan arrived no one in that house would enforce anything even half resembling a wake-up time.

*

In retrospect, Mischa realized, they were stupid about literally everything that night.

One: excess alcohol. As soon as he woke up the next morning, all desert mouth and sticky limbs, he knew training was going to be a hilarious joke; the day after imbibing he never felt like doing anything but laying on the couch with Sprite and pizza. Despite the fact that Jez was quite lax about down time, he was ruthless in the gym, so neither of those things were even in the realm of possibility for the day.

Two: not setting an alarm. It was one thirty by the time they were both somewhat alive again and the switchup in schedule was going to fuck them both over for days. The late hour was made even more serious by the fact that they were collectively responsible for

Three: not locking the door.

The house was silent; the light that beamed through their room was harsh and hot, full sun because Mischa hadn’t shut the blinds again after throwing them open the previous night. Their door was firmly shut but as he stared at it longer and longer the cogs in his sluggish brain began to turn; the knob didn’t look right and as he studied it and studied it the reason for that came to him all at once.

He sat up like he’d been bolted through by lightning.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sash.”

Sascha, who prior to Mischa’s panic attack had been nuzzling sleepily into his shoulder, felt the world drop out from beneath him; nothing good could come after Mischa adapted a tone like THAT, especially not under their current circumstances. His eyes went plate-round. 

“What? What is it?”

“The door,” said Mischa, strained. “We didn’t fucking lock it last night.”

“Oh,” said Sascha, and his shoulders fell. “Oh, fuck.”

“Jez wouldn’t come in here,” said Mischa, slow, “would he?”

“No,” said Sascha with confidence. “We’d know if he had, because we were fucking spooning and he wouldn’t have let us get away with THAT quietly. We’re fine.”

“We can’t do that again,” said Mischa. He was visibly shaken. “We have to be more careful. Jesus.”

Sascha sat up, trailed a pacifying hand down Mischa’s spine.

“We will,” he said, gently. “Last night was...unusual. We were both fucked up and distracted as shit. It’s not going to happen again.”

“It can’t,” said Mischa, and Sascha realized that his heart rate was elevated again. “There are about to be three more people in this house, two of which are about as observant as anyone can get. We’re gonna have to lock doors, set alarms, we...” 

“Meesh,” said Sascha firmly. “Breathe. You’re panicking.” 

Mischa took a long, long inhale.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Sascha smirked. “Why? Because you’re supposed to be the calm, responsible one?”

“Yeah, like I’ve been responsible at all since your heat came on,” said Mischa automatically, and they both grinned at each other, guilty.

“You sort of have,” said Sascha, gleaming at the eyes. “You didn’t fuck me in the backseat of your car that first night I was back in Monte Carlo, even though you obviously wanted to.”

“True,” said Mischa grimly, “but I don’t think that was me being the kind of responsible you need. I think it was me being the kind of responsible Dad expects.”

Surprised, Sascha met his eyes, flushed; Mischa leaned over and kissed him tenderly on the lips. Sascha kissed back and they were both coming in hot but half of Mischa’s focus was on that unlocked door and after only a brief moment he pulled back. Sascha pushed forward, groaned in frustration.

“Ugh, Meesh.”

“It’s half past one,” said Mischa, gentle, “and we need to get out of bed before Ivan gets here, or he _will_ come looking for us.”

“He won’t be here for hours, you know that flight will take forever,” said Sascha dismissively, angling his body so he could press Mischa just slightly back into the mattress, kiss him openly on the mouth. Mischa was squirming and he kissed back despite his own murmured protests, hand going to wrap around the scruff of Sascha’s neck, territorial. Already he was half-hard and when Sascha took his hand and brought it to the front of his gym shorts Mischa could feel that he was, too. It was easy, easy, easy to lose himself in his brother, the lazy, sexual way he swiped his tongue around the inside of Mischa’s mouth, how he gripped the back of Mischa’s hand, coaxing him, showing him how he wanted to be touched. When Mischa skated fingers up the leg of Sascha’s shorts to press his palm against skin Sascha gave a low groan that went straight to Mischa’s cock.

“Sash,” he panted, “the _door_.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, go,” said Sascha, breathless, so Mischa got up, strode the length of the bedroom to throw the lock, but just as he did his phone started singing from across the hall, in his bedroom. He knew it could only be one of four people, and any one of them would have too many questions if he didn’t pick up. Helplessly he looked back at Sascha sprawled in bed, lust-drunk at the eyes, one of his huge palms messing absently with the bulge in the front of his shorts. Mischa’s mouth went instantly, overwhelmingly dry and he swore out loud.

“God damn.”

“Ignore it,” said Sascha, and Mischa closed his eyes, huffed out an agitated breath.

“Come with me.”

Sascha arched his eyebrows, grinned, taken aback. He looked down at himself; he was painfully, clearly hard, there was no way he could hide it. “Come with you? Like this?”

“Who are you going to run into in the hallway? Come on,” said Mischa, and he darted across the hall, not giving Sascha one further second to argue. When he reached his bedroom he dove stomach-down onto his mattress and grabbed his phone from the side table, clicked it on without bothering to check the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Mischa,” said Irina, and he felt his jaw relax; of everyone that could have been calling him, his mother was the least likely to cause an issue. “Have you been sleeping?”

“No, Mum,” lied Mischa immediately, “I was - downstairs making lunch and left my phone in my room to charge, sorry. What’s up?”

“And your brother?” Irina’s voice was amused. “When I tried to call him, his phone went straight to voicemail.”

“Sash? Uh, I don’t know why, he’s awake,” said Mischa, still fucked for how it felt to talk about Sascha to either of his parents now that they were something else, something more than brothers. “He was by the pool last I saw him.” 

As he spoke a huge hot hand mapped gently down the rungs of his spine; around him Mischa felt the air change and the mattress sunk in slightly as Sascha climbed atop the bed with him, and then his mouth was at the center of the scruff of Mischa’s neck and he was convulsing with goosebump-shudders.

“Was I,” murmured Sascha in rough German against Mischa’s skin, and Mischa bit his tongue to stop himself growling aloud.

“When you see him,” said Irina, “tell him his phone’s dead, will you? Your father wants to know if you two have hit yet today.”

“No,” said Mischa, and as Sascha nuzzled against his ear he turned his head so they could kiss, soft, careful so they wouldn’t make noise. Mischa’s cock was pounding and his lower stomach was volcanic heat and Sascha had resumed playing with himself and it was too much, too much, too much. He couldn’t clear all the rust from his voice when he spoke again. “Not yet. Jez likes to ease us into the weather so we’re gonna wait until tonight when it’s not so brutal outside.”

“That’s good,” said Irina. “I’m assuming Ivan hasn’t made it yet, because of the storm?”

“Sash said he was able to get a flight today,” said Mischa, wholly distracted, his eyes on Sascha’s hand. He licked into his brother’s mouth and the sigh that spilled from Sascha’s throat was all heat. “I don’t know when he lands.” 

“Not until late,” said Sascha aloud; his voice was husky and Mischa closed his eyes as he put his phone on speaker. “Hi, Mum.”

“Hey, Sash,” said Irina. “Your phone’s dead, did you know? I tried calling you.” 

“Fuck,” said Sascha aloud, and it was half for that, half because Mischa had rolled to his side and begun to dip fingertips into the waistband of Sascha’s shorts, hungry for him. “I mean, uh, no, sorry Mum. I must have forgotten to plug it in last night and I’ve been swimming, like, all morning.”

“Good,” said Irina, approvingly. “so you’re recovered fully, then? You sound kind of rough.”

“Probably because I haven’t talked all day,” said Sascha, clearing his throat. “I feel great. For real."

“He’s been fine,” supplied Mischa, dragging his fingernails lightly up Sascha’s stomach. Sascha watched him and only with effort did he keep his breathing steady. “And you slept late too, yeah, Sash? Later than me.”

“I slept well,” said Sascha. “And tons on the plane, Mum, I think I’m totally better. Honestly. Tell Dad we’ll hit for a while tonight so he doesn’t freak out.”

“You know I always tell him what he wants to hear when it comes to things like this,” said Irina, and they grinned at each other: if anyone could pacify Alex, it was their mother. “Anyway, I also called to tell you we’re flying in late on Saturday, but we’ll be there to do Christmas Eve as usual. You guys don’t have to worry about getting us from the airport, you’ll need your rest, Sash.”

“Mum,” said Sascha, managing to keep his voice even while Mischa mouthed over his collarbone, licked the new bruises he’d left to flourish there the previous night. “Don’t tell me you’re suddenly okay with Uber?”

“No way,” said Irina airily, “we rented a car. We’ll need one anyway.”

“You’re not wrong,” said Sascha, and then Mischa got his hand all the way down into his shorts and wrapped his fingers around his cock and just like that Sascha couldn’t breathe. Mischa rose to his haunches, rested back upon them, got in Sascha’s face with his head tipped back and his sun-fat lips parted, eyes glowing as he watched pleasure undulating through Sascha’s expression. He said calmly, as though he wasn’t giving his little brother a semi-handjob while they were on the phone with their mother,

“So what time are you getting in, then, Mum?”

“I think our plane will land at eleven thirty or so,” said Irina. “I’ll send you the flight information when we get off the phone. Did you guys do anything fun last night?”

“Oh,” said Mischa, spreading wetness from the tip of Sascha’s cock down the underside with one indolent finger, “nothing super exciting. We went to dinner with Jez and then to a few bars.”

“But you still went to sleep early,” said Irina, skeptical, laughing. She knew exactly how Jez could be, what a horrible influence, but she loved him and trusted him all the same. They all did.

“Yep,” said Mischa cheerfully, before he brought the finger shiny with Sascha’s precome to his mouth and licked it. Sascha’s cock jumped for that; he leaned in and knocked their foreheads together and Mischa kissed him, let him taste himself. Sascha’s scent was strong from alcohol sweat and sleep and everything they had done in the middle of the night and Mischa was teetering, precipice edge.

“Hang up,” mouthed Sascha, coal-eyed, and Mischa swallowed.

“Mum, we have to go,” he said, holding his breath when Sascha closed his hand over the inside of his thigh, so close to where his cock was throbbing and pulsing in his shorts. “We’re gonna eat lunch and then Jez is dragging us to the gym. I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Of course,” said Irina, and they said their goodbyes even as Sascha was climbing atop Mischa’s hips, threading their fingers together as the forgotten phone thumped to the bed beside them. Sascha wriggled out of his shorts and Mischa yanked frantic at his own waistband and then they were naked together, skin finding skin as Sascha moaned aloud. Mischa pressed his hand to Sascha’s mouth and Sascha sucked his thumb in deep; Mischa’s eyes rolled briefly white. 

“You have to be quiet,” he said on a hiss, but he was grinning. “There’s another person in this house.”

“And a Lövik,” said Sascha snarkily against his brother’s thumb, maneuvering so Mischa’s cock rubbed wetly between his ass cheeks. Mischa swore into his hand.

“God, Sash.”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, and he was past propriety, so horny as to be reckless. He didn’t care what he said or did, didn’t care about any of the million reasons why they shouldn’t, all he wanted was Mischa inside of him, filling him, fulfilling him. “Fuck, I want you in me.”

Mischa breathed out hard through his nose, pulled Sascha down to kiss him, held his hips while he ground up between Sascha’s thighs. His lower stomach was pearl-dotted with his brother’s precum and he was only made of need. “You’re going to end me like this.”

“If that means I get to ride you through this mattress,” said Sascha into the hollow of Mischa’s ear, spitting in their harsh German-Russian mutt language, “then so be it.”

“ _Sash_ ,” gritted Mischa, forgetting the need to be quiet, forgetting that they shouldn’t, forgetting every, every, everything except the feel of Sascha’s lissome body all over him, “Jesus Christ, it’s like you’re in heat.”

“You like it when I talk like this,” said Sascha, smug. He raised his hips, tucked the crown of Mischa’s cock into the cleft of his ass, dragged himself down so Mischa would feel all of him, so he would remember what it was like. Frenzied, Mischa reached between them and slid himself over Sascha’s entrance, once, twice. The moan that warbled from Sascha’s chest was wanton, needy, and Mischa was half-blind for lust.

“Yes I like it,” he growled, sitting up, hitching Sascha more securely into his lap. “I think about you begging me to fuck you all the time. I think about you saying _you make me feel full as fuck_ and I lose my goddamned mind.”

“You do,” said Sascha, rolling his hips shamelessly forward so that perfect friction sparked between them. “You’re fucking huge, Meesh, especially when you knot, you don’t know how good it is. If it meant I’d get two heats a year with you I’d fucking go off my suppressants when I’m supposed to have my first cycle, too.”

There was no blood left in Mischa’s brain to rationalize him; all of that crucial supply had been lent to his raging, leaking cock, and he knew this little hiatus they’d taken could not last, not with Sascha acting as he was.

“You want,” he said thickly, “to go through another heat with me?”

Sascha folded his lips together over a smile for his brother’s cluelessness.

“Mischa,” he said softly, “I want to go through _all_ of my heats with you.”

Mischa couldn’t process what Sascha was telling him, not with his brain so thoroughly blocked from arousal. He held his index finger to Sascha’s mouth and immediately Sascha sucked it in, doused it in saliva like Mischa wanted, and when it was wet enough he reached between them and circled around Sascha’s entrance, once, gently.

“Can I - “ he said, because they weren’t drunk anymore and he needed to hear Sascha say yes.

“Put it in,” said Sascha, and he lifted his hips so Mischa could slide one finger inside of him. He was so tight Mischa almost blacked out; like it was nothing Sascha rocked once, twice up and down and before either of them knew it Mischa had added another two fingers dry and Sascha was fucking himself down on Mischa’s hand, biting his inner cheek against the urge to cry out. Slowly, slowly Mischa was jerking off against the side of Sascha’s thigh, both of them _weeping_ from their slits, and when Sascha looked down into Mischa’s eyes understanding like prophecy struck between them. Mischa swallowed, breath on either side of it unsteady.

“Why is everything so good with you?”

Sascha shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said, but he did, and Mischa did, too.

“Sash, I need - “ began Mischa, any semblance of pride or wrong having dissolved long ago, and Sascha thought he knew what he was about to say but then Lövik was yowling and scratching at the door and Jez was shouting incoherently at the bottom of the stairs for him to come back and just like that the atmosphere shattered. Spooked, Sascha sprang from Mischa’s lap, wincing at the sudden hollowness inside of him; Mischa’s heart was stumbling violently inside of his chest and the adrenaline rush was enough to make him instantaneously lightheaded. He could hear Jez thumping up the stairs calling Lövik’s name and in less than two seconds he was out of bed with his shorts back on.

“Hide,” he hissed at Sascha, hurling his shorts at him, and then he reached for the crumpled t-shirt he’d thrown carelessly over the bedpost the night before and tucked what was left of his hard-on and went to the doorway to grab Lövik. Before he turned the knob he checked behind him; Sascha was already concealed in the bathroom, stepping clumsily into his shorts in the dark, trying not to breathe.

When Mischa opened the door Lövik jumped on him; Jez was emerging over the top of the stairs looking both annoyed and faintly amused. Mischa looked across the hall, noted with a tidal rush of relief that Sascha had closed his bedroom door when he’d followed Mischa to his room.

“I tried to stop him,” Jez said, gesturing to Lövik. “He’d had enough of being away from you guys, I guess. You all right today?”

“Fine,” said Mischa, shoving the hand that had just been half-buried inside his brother into his pocket as he cradled an overjoyed Lövik in one elbow. “Just woke up about half an hour ago when my mum called, actually. Is Sash up?” 

“I don’t know,” said Jez, glancing back at Sascha’s door. “I’ve been passed out on the couch until literally five minutes ago. If he wasn’t before Lovey started barking, he probably is now.”

“Maybe,” said Mischa, pulse shrieking. “He’s been sick, though, and he sleeps like the fucking dead when he’s recovering. If you haven’t seen him he’s probably either still passed out or at the pool.”

“It’s two fifteen,” said Jez. “If he’s not up by three we’ll grab him. If I don’t get you guys to the gym today your dad will have an aneurysm.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” said Mischa, smirking, and Jez grinned back. 

“Good man. You hungry?” 

“Starving,” said Mischa, kissing the top of Lövik’s head, and he was. “Let’s get bagels or something. We can bring them back for Sash.”

“Solid,” said Jez, “let’s go to that place like three blocks down, you know which one I mean?”

“The one with the amazing cold brew?”

“That’s the one,” said Jez, and when Mischa nodded emphatically he added, “I need to put on clothes I haven’t slept in. Give me five minutes.”

He took the stairs to his room two at a time; the second he was out of sight Mischa exhaled for what felt like the first time since he’d opened his door. He carried Lövik into the bedroom, deposited him wriggling on the floor, and looked up to find a wild-eyed Sascha emerging from the bathroom.

Their eyes met. Sascha huffed out a breath.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah,” said Mischa, and he clamped his hands on his hips, lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “We have got to be more fucking careful.”

“I know,” said Sascha, reserved. Now that the overpowering arousal had dimmed to mere background noise he could formulate rational thought again and he understood that what they were doing was very, very dangerous. “We need to keep Lovey in with us if he’s gonna do that. Don’t we, bud.”

Lövik, realizing he was being addressed, scrambled happily over to Sascha’s feet; Sascha swept him up and buried his face in the little dog’s dark ringleted fur. He realized he was shaking and drew a huge breath to flatten out his own edges. 

“Yeah. Fuck, Sash.” Mischa’s voice was all instability.

“I know. Look, I’m gonna go to my room and come out like I’ve been asleep. I want to come to the bagel shop and I’ll just say I woke up when I heard Lövik barking.”

“Okay,” said Mischa. Inside his chest relief swelled rapidly; he realized he’d been dreading the time apart, however brief. When Sascha came to him to deposit Lövik in his arms Mischa leaned up and rested his forehead against Sascha’s own.

“We’re insane, you know.”

Sascha smiled, massively. Mischa loved to watch it unfold, a burgeoning sunrise across his face, the imprinted dimples, the way his canines edged slightly over the bottom row of his teeth.

“As long as it’s both of us,” he said, and kissed Mischa gently on lips. “Today is gonna be rough.”

Mischa gave a quick caustic chuckle; against his chest Lövik chuffed, licked his arm. “Mmm. If you mean because I almost fucked you and then didn’t, uh yeah.”

A streak of heat sliced through Sascha’s groin. “Yeah, because you almost fucked me and then didn’t. I’m gonna be hard as shit all day.”

“Me too,” said Mischa. “Already kind of am again. Now go to your room before we get ourselves in trouble.”

Sascha smirked, raised his eyebrows sharply. “Yes, sir.”

“Shut up,” said Mischa, face going near tangerine for embarrassment. Once more he kissed Sascha on the mouth, heavy and sweet at the same time, and Sascha used his tongue enough to make Mischa squirm. “Or you won’t get bagels.”

*

In the end, all of them got bagels. Jez drank his first coffee in about ten seconds flat and ordered another one while they were still waiting for their food to be brought out; Mischa got a second cup to go and Sascha laughed at both of them while he took slow, measured sips of his own cold brew. Jez kept his sunglasses on the entire time they were inside the restaurant because “no one should have to witness these dark circles, it’s like looking into a hellmouth, Jesus.”

“Thought you never got hungover,” said Sascha snarkily.

“I don’t,” said Jez, airy, “but I still look like shit.”

“It’s about how you feel inside, Sash,” said Mischa with emphasis, smirking, and Jez smacked him.

“And how do you feel, old man?”

“You’re older than me, fuck off,” said Mischa, laughing, and Jez raised his cup to clink against Mischa’s own.

“Hey, man. Thirty-five is the new twenty-five.” 

“Ancient,” said Sascha under his breath, snickering, and both Jez and Mischa whirled on him. Jez said, quite calmly,

“No talking from the kid’s table.”

Sascha’s face was delighted; he opened his mouth to fire back, but their order was called and while Jez turned to grab it Mischa held up a finger, pressed it to Sascha’s lips to shush him. So riled, so unfulfilled was Sascha from their earlier interruption that the familiar gesture made him instantly half-hard. Mischa saw it in his eyes and smirked, hooked his fingertip in Sascha’s lower lip before he dropped his hand and turned seamlessly to Jez to grab his bag.

They ate by the pool, relaxed for nearly an hour before Jez dragged them to the gym to sweat out everything they’d consumed the previous evening. It took half an hour before either Mischa or Sascha came fully back online but by the time they were finished, pearled over with perspiration, they were both alive again. Mischa was shirtless but Sascha had opted to remain fully dressed in case Jez was overly observant and noticed that several of his bruises appeared slightly fresher than others. While they cooled down Jez looked on approvingly from where he languished on his treadmill.

“Am I the only supervisor who will be present for the hitting session tonight?”

“Yes,” said Sascha, checking his phone. “Ivan will be here at like nine.”

“We could go now,” said Mischa, his eyes locked on a jewel of sweat sliding down Sascha’s throat.

“Mischa, you’re insane, it’s hot as balls out there,” said Jez. “I don’t even want to _stand_ in that.”

“Not outside,” said Mischa, “what do you take me for? There are those indoor courts we use when it’s raining...”

“Yes,” said Sascha immediately. “I’d so much rather hit now than wait until tonight.”

Jez was watching him with his mouth twisted in thought. “Even though conditions at Hopman Cup will be totally different? You know, like, _outside_?”

“Jez, I’m a professional,” said Sascha, grinning. “I can adapt. I’m down for indoors. Let’s just go now, we brought snacks, I don’t want to shower nine times today.”

He strolled over to his bag, which he’d tossed against the wall earlier, and pulled out a banana and his half-charged phone. Marcelo had texted him.

_How’s it going?_

_It’s going. How’s vacation?_

_Awesome. You get bloodwork back yet?_

_Nope._

 “I mean, the upside of that is we’ll be done early enough to go out to dinner again,” said Jez thoughtfully.

Mischa scoffed at him, joined Sascha to dig in his own bag for food. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Who said I was?”

“Your face did,” said Sascha, looking down at his phone, which had buzzed in his hand. He’d just taken a bite of banana and he nearly choked on it when he saw Marcelo’s reply.

_You guys fuck yet?_

“What about my face? _Your_ face,” said Jez, catching Sascha’s rapid shift of expression. “Who’s texting you, that new Alpha of yours?”

“No, it’s Marcelo,” said Sascha thickly, and Mischa came over to thump him on the back, glance casually at his screen. Years of practice had given him the ability to adapt a better poker face than Sascha and he merely raised an eyebrow without comment, though Sascha could scent the upswing in his heartbeat immediately. “Inside joke. He’s just being an idiot.”

Mischa said, “Isn’t he always?” But his voice was fond.

“Is he coming for Hopman Cup?” Jez hopped off the treadmill, wiped his face with his towel. “As support, or whatever?”

“Maybe at the end of the week,” said Sascha. “But he and Lukasz are one hundred percent still on vacation, so I don’t know. And it might be weird with my dad.” 

“Why?” Jez looked at him strangely. “He’s not down with your little arrangement? It shouldn’t matter because you weren’t even with him this time, right?”

At the same instant Sascha and Mischa both realized the complications they had laid out for themselves by admitting to a member of their close circle that Marcelo had not been the Alpha to bring Sascha through his latest heat; Mischa smelled the spike of fear in Sascha’s blood, felt him go speechless, and took over.

“He doesn’t know it wasn’t Marcelo. Neither does Mum. Sash didn’t even know Dad knew about Marcelo until like two weeks ago.” 

Jez faced them both head on, hands on his hips, confused.

“Wait, what?”

“Dad’s not the coolest about who I like,” said Sascha on a mutter, cutting his eyes away. There were people all around them and he bit his lower lip, uncomfortable. “I’ll tell you in the car, come on.”

Once they were situated in their rental car, Jez taking up half the backseat and Sascha at the wheel with Mischa as copilot, Jez scooted up between the two front seats and said,

“Okay. Usually I’d say fuck drama, but spill. Your dad isn’t cool that you like guys?” 

“It’s not that he’s not cool, exactly,” said Sascha, awkward. Driving gave him something to focus on other than the tricky conversation and he was grateful for it. “It’s just that he wants a lot of grandbabies and apparently forgot about the fact that adoption exists. Except I don’t want kids, so that doesn’t even matter.”

“So what I’m hearing you say, in a roundabout way, is that he’s not cool with it,” said Jez decisively, wonderingly, and his voice had a bite to it that Sascha had never heard before. “That’s actually bullshit, Sash.”

“Yeah, it is,” said Mischa angrily from the passenger seat, and Sascha looked over at him, smiled, had to stop himself from reaching for Mischa’s hand.

“I know it is,” he said. “I think I’m just kind of used to it by now. And it hasn’t been a huge deal in the past, because first he was focused on marrying Mischa off, and I’ve been really adamant about not wanting to risk a bond with anyone that I’m not incredibly serious about. But I’m old enough for a legitimate bond now, and Mischa hasn’t given him any grandbabies yet, so.”

“So he’s pushing that Olga girl on you,” said Jez. He was piecing things together more quickly than was perhaps comfortable for either Sascha or Mischa; usually, he was extraordinarily laid-back and tended to ignore details, but when he cared about something, he was whip-sharp and observant - which wasn’t particularly wonderful for the current situation. “Because he wants a bigger family, or what?”

“Yes,” said Sascha and Mischa together.

“They both wanted more kids, but because he was on tour, they really couldn’t afford to have them,” said Mischa.

“So we get to be the scapegoats for that now,” said Sascha, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, long story short, I didn’t tell him about the other Alpha because I didn’t want to deal with his crushing disappointment. So for now, as far as my parents are concerned, Marcelo is the only one in the picture.”

“Got it,” said Jez, solemn. “They won’t hear anything different from me. But I do have one really serious question.”

Sascha was prepared for _who is it, what’s his name_. “Okay.”

“How the fuck did you hide those bruises from them?" 

Both Sascha and Mischa laughed out loud; Sascha knew that Mischa had been readying himself for the obvious question, too. “Uh,” he said, “a lot of concealer. And hoodies.”

“I mean,” said Jez, chuckling as they pulled into the parking lot of the indoor facility, “those are _nasty._ And they weren’t even fresh, so they must have been a hundred times worse when you first got home.”

“They were,” said Mischa, cheerfully. “I had to help him go makeup shopping. It was a rough couple of days.”

“Sounds like it,” said Jez. “But what about on court? Did it stay on then, wouldn’t you sweat it off?”

“To he honest, I got lucky,” said Sascha. “We only hit a couple of times because neither of us were feeling well last week. When we did hit we planned it so Dad was doing something else. He’s not so serious that he has to be at every practice during the off season.” 

“Perfect timing for you to get sick if there ever was one,” said Jez, as they got out of the car. It was four pm and the heat was oppressive; sweat built immediately on each of their foreheads as they unloaded their bags from the back. “Does Marcelo know?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha. “That’s what he was texting me about, actually.”

As he said it he realized that he’d forgotten to reply; he grabbed his phone from the console and found another message waiting for him.

_I take your silence as a yes._

_NO,_ he texted back, grinning, because as wrong as it was he was _giddy_ about this, all of it, the secret keeping and the truth twisting, the fact that it was forbidden. _I got distracted. Sorry. But no. We haven’t._

“Is he okay with it?”

“Yeah, of course,” said Sascha. “He’s already bonded. Very happily, I might add.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Jez, and with deep affection leaned over and roughed Sascha’s curls. “Okay. I’ll stop grilling you now. Tell me about him if you want sometime, but I’ll leave you alone. Let’s go fuck it up.”

“He’s amazing, Jez,” said Sascha without thinking, and as soon as he realized he’d spoken he clamped his jaw shut with an audible _clack._

Jez grinned hugely.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha softly, and behind Jez’s back he glanced sideways at Mischa, whose face was _burgeoning_ with heat. He looked over, met Sascha’s gaze, smiled. For the most flickering of seconds his eyes were more expressive than Sascha had ever seen them and it was enough because the only emotion there was love. He wanted to speak, couldn’t, but flash-quick Mischa reached over and touched his face and after that nothing further needed to be said. Sascha was so in love with him, his chest so expansive with it, he felt like he could have taken flight. 

In his pocket his phone vibrated:

_I think you a liar, Sash_

And when Sascha showed it to Mischa he almost laughed aloud.

 _Not a liar_ , Sascha wrote back. _But I would be if I got my way._

_SASCHA ZVEREV_. _You bad boy._

_I know, shut up. I can’t help it._

_You call me tonight, ok? We talk._

_I will._

Jez ran them through a quick warmup but they were already ready to go from the gym and they hit the court running. In furious rapidfire Russian Sascha called across the net to Mischa that they were under no circumstances to play a set; if Mischa won, Jez would be proud and surprised, so he would talk about it, and word would reach Alex and Irina. Jez yelled at them to pick a common tongue and Mischa said innocently in English, 

“Tiebreaks?”

They played four. Mischa won the first with ease but by the middle of the second, having won a total of five points, Sascha was _raging_ and he threw himself into overdrive. He clawed back in the second for 9-7; Mischa won the third 8-6, and Sascha was stunned by how close Mischa was playing him, how he seemed to read his every move before it was even executed. He was proud of and happy for his brother but he was also fully aware that this was not normal and he was angry at himself and in the fourth, just to get the upper edge, his level had to be nearly as high as it had been in London. He was getting demonstrative and Mischa was enthralled by him _;_ when he scraped out a passing shot for 6-5 Sascha swore out loud. 

“Get _out_ of it, Mischa.”

“No can do, little bro,” said Mischa calmly, and Jez laughed.

“Mischa showed up to work today,” he said. “Come on, Sash. You know how to deal.”

Sascha was snarling; he both loved and hated how Mischa had addressed him, and he was going to tell him all about it later in his own little way. In any case Jez was not wrong - he did know how to deal, slammed two unreturnable serves in a row to go up 7-6, and the look in his eyes when he established his return position at baseline was _murderous_. 

“So serious, Sash,” sang Mischa as he threaded the ball between his legs, amused at the baseline. 

“I don’t like losing,” muttered Sascha, and both Jez and Mischa snickered at him, derisive. 

“You don’t say.”

“Fuck off.”

“You,” said Mischa, and then it was _his_ turn to crack an ace.

In the end Sascha won 13-11; he ran to Mischa at the net and embraced him, and Mischa said in playful Russian-German:

“Maybe I’ll draw you in the quarters of a slam.”

“If you do we’re both dead,” hissed Sascha, and then Jez was there and smacking Mischa on the back and they both shut up. How flawlessly Mischa was playing when he stepped on court with Sascha could not be a coincidence, but for all the progress they'd made neither of them could bring themselves to discuss exactly why that was aloud. Sascha thought of how much Mischa did not know and his stomach plunged like a skydive leap. Every day brought them closer to the revelation of his bloodwork and he didn’t know how he was going to tell Mischa the entire truth, no corner-cutting or hedging: that if they were bonded, they would literally need each other to survive for the rest of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't wait for everyone else to get to Australia and make that house seem a whole hell of a lot smaller. :D
> 
> Yeah tbh I have no idea wtf is going on in real time with Sascha and his weird lack of form and his annoying-ass ex being in his box in Stuttgart sooooo I originally had planned to kind of align events with what happened IRL but because I'm literally riding rollercoasters trying to keep up with that disaster of a boy, I'm taking this where I want from now on. Hold on to your butts, y'all, cause it's about to start getting real.


	18. Chapter 18

After all that exercise there was no way Mischa couldn’t go half-mad for Sascha’s free-flowing scent; despite both of them now regularly taking double suppressants, sometimes there was simply nothing that medication could do to cover everything that it needed to cover. Now, after Baros, they could still faintly scent each other merely from normal proximity; following a gym or hitting session, situations could rise to threat level midnight at any time. It didn’t help that Sascha’s smell was notoriously strong; when he removed his sweat-saturated shirt in the car on the way back to the rental house, even Jez – who by all accounts largely preferred women – turned his head for it. Mischa, meanwhile, was immediately so hard he had to throw his towel over his lap to hide the apparent tenting in his shorts.

“Sash, oof,” said Jez good-naturedly from the driver’s seat, and Sascha glanced up from where he was digging in his bag for a fresh shirt. Mischa looked sideways at Jez and there was an edge to his jaw that Sascha both loved and feared for its palpability; from the side of the seat he clamped his hand over the back of Mischa’s elbow and dug his fingernails in.

“Jez, control yourself,” he said, just as agreeably. “Everything’s a little stronger after heat, I can’t help it. Roll the windows down or something.”

“Put a shirt on or something,” retorted Jez, laughing. “Mischa, can you smell him? You look like you’re fucking dying.”

Sascha froze; he locked eyes with Mischa in the rearview mirror but Jez had already called him out for the expression on his face and denial now would be nothing short of preposterous.

“Yes,” said Mischa, strained. “I can smell him. I’ve always been able to.”

“Really? That’s so crazy,” said Jez. He sounded like he meant it, like he was genuinely interested in their strange dynamics, the difficulties. “I’ve never in my life met Alpha-Omega siblings. I always wanted to know how the hell that was supposed to work. Like, I have a cousin who’s an Omega, and I’ve been able to smell her at times, but I’ve never been around her close to a heat, so I have no idea what that would be like.”

“We’re really rare,” said Sascha, yanking a clean t-shirt over his head. “And Mum and Dad are clueless because they’re both Betas. When I was born the doctors couldn’t understand it. It was weird enough for them to have an Alpha, let alone an Alpha _and_ an Omega.”

“Awkward. You both turned out great, though, and not fucked up, so I think they handled things okay,” said Jez. He looked as though he wanted to ask something else, but perhaps the rough set to Mischa’s jaw deterred him, because he simply twisted his mouth and looked back to the road. “So are we going out again tonight?”

“Is that all you think about?” Sascha was quick here, saving Mischa from having to speak, letting him recover. All of him was focused on the back of his brother’s head, the tension in his shoulders, and with a harsh yank of shock he realized that he, too, could detect Mischa’s scent, how aroused he was. Dazedly he wondered if Jez could smell Mischa, decided that for his own mental health that he would not entertain such a notion.

“Fuck you, you wouldn’t even have gone to the gym today if it wasn’t for me,” said Jez, grinning. “You have limited party time until Ivan arrives. Think about it." 

*

When they got back to the house Sascha grabbed Lövik and took him outside, overwhelmingly aware of Mischa’s eyes on him, desire still thick in his aroma. By the time he had traipsed back into the kitchen both Jez and Mischa were gone; faintly he could hear water running and surmised that they both had gone to shower. For a hazy, uncertain moment he stood with Lövik tucked securely under one arm and flipped mentally through his options: if he did what he so acutely wanted to do, he would have to be quick. Jez was proving much shrewder than anticipated and it was far, far, far from ideal.

He sighed, kissed Lövik on his fluffy head. Then he set him carefully down and raced two at a time up the stairs to Mischa’s room. 

Before he could even open the door the smell attacked him; he knew what Mischa was doing without having to lay eyes upon him because it was in the air, in his skin, in his _blood_ after one quick inhale. Shower water and soap could not cover a thing when Mischa was jerking off, especially not after he’d spent the last two and a half solid hours emitting pheromones through exercise sweat.

Sascha barged like a lunatic into the bedroom, had to reel instantly backwards to stop the door from slamming behind him, clicked it quietly shut and threw the bolt before he stormed into the bathroom, the door to which Mischa had left cracked. It was like a signal, his eyes when he looked up into Sascha’s own were godless and iniquitous and knowing. He had wanted Sascha to smell him, had wanted to be found here soaking wet under the shower water with one sure hand sliding slick-slow along his swollen cock. He was gorgeous and everything about him was so goddamned sexual and Sascha was _fully_ unprepared for how _immediately_ destroyed he was. 

“ _Mischa_ ,” he rumbled in vexation, and Mischa flashed the filthiest smile. He said,

“Can you smell me?”

And his voice was seesaw-unsteady.

“As strong as you can smell me,” said Sascha boldly, and Mischa moaned aloud. It was the kind of noise he might have made upon sheathing his cock inside of Sascha’s body and it was too much. Without a shred of misgiving Sascha yanked his shirt over his head, let his shorts fall to the ground, took his dick in one hand. 

“Come here, Sash,” said Mischa with authority, and Sascha obeyed, hypnotized by the commanding nature of Mischa’s tone. When he reached the shower Mischa slid the door aside to let him in but pushed him back against the wall opposite the stream of water, pressed against him so their hips were matched, lining their cocks together so he could grip them both in one hand. Sascha let him, looped his fingers roughly in Mischa’s sopping curls.

“Fuck, Mischa.”

“You know,” said Mischa, huskily, “it’s really not ideal that your scent is so fucking strong sometimes.”

“No?” Sascha knew where he was going with this and he was in love and he wanted to play. “You can’t handle yourself in public around me?”

Mischa’s eyes flashed electric.

“That,” he said, “and other Alphas can smell you, too.”

A little triumphant smile quirked up one side of Sascha’s mouth, satisfied comma. He’d guessed correctly: Mischa was jealous.

“Other Alphas, hmm.” 

“Yes,” said Mischa, bending in to attach his mouth to Sascha’s collarbone, where the freshest of bruises lay like a scar against his skin. “Other Alphas. I saw his face, Sascha.”

“Ah, you mean Jez,” said Sascha, faking dumb. He loved Mischa in all roles of the Alpha that he’d played so far: sweet, attentive, over-cautious, but now he was seeing the possessive side, and he was raw for it, obsessed. This was where Mischa showed him how truly they had bonded: when he went insane at the thought of anyone else even _glancing_ at Sascha.

“You know I mean Jez,” said Mischa, baring his teeth so Sascha yelped, his thumb flicking over first Sascha’s crown, then his own. “He’s not even into guys and he was practically salivating over you.”

“Well, who can blame him?” Sascha was smirking, cocksure. “My smell is really strong. Two suppressants don’t cut it this close to heat, I guess.”

Mischa was growling, his pace of stroke increasing, pasting Sascha back into the cold shower tiles so he shivered. “Your smell is fucking heroin.” 

“Yeah?” Sascha was sick of reining himself in, sick of PG-13, wanted Mischa’s tongue between his legs and didn’t care how he got it there. “Remember that smell when you first walked into the room with me? How you were so hard you were fucking bursting with it, and how you could practically taste me when you got up under my armpit?”

Mischa groaned into Sascha’s throat. He was leaking precum in thick spurts and they were both wet from crown to base and Sascha wasn’t sure whose it was but he was already so near to orgasm from their previous escapades that his stomach was shaking.

Mischa grabbed Sascha’s arm, forced it gently above his head, submerged his nose in the cleft of his armpit and breathed him in like a cloud of weedsmoke. He smelled so good Mischa was instantly delirious, lightheaded.

“When,” he said, wild, “is your next heat supposed to be?”

Sascha grinned like a raptor. “What do you mean supposed to be?”

“If you went off your meds before next off season,” said Mischa, licking at Sascha’s skin, the essence of him. He was close, close, close.

“It would be - uh, it would be early June,” said Sascha, and he wasn’t sure how he was even formulating coherent thought because Mischa was stroking their cocks furiously now and they were both panting, toeing that invisible line.

Mischa slid his tongue up the straight angle of Sascha’s throat, over mark and bone and jawline until he could lick up under Sascha’s top lip.

“You have no fucking idea, Sash,” he whispered, “how bad I want to fuck you through it.”

Sascha’s knees went gelatinous then and with a ruined sob of a moan he came sloppily all over Mischa’s belly, milk cream that soon mixed with his brother’s own as Mischa keened gutturally into Sascha’s throat, spent. Sascha leveled a hand under Mischa’s chin and tipped it up to kiss him and he could feel how hard Mischa was trembling.

“Mischa,” he said quietly, “no one else is ever going to be good enough after you.” 

Mischa closed his eyes, shook his head, pressed his forehead to Sascha’s own.

“Sash, I think about you all the time,” he said, and his voice was small and scared. “And I don’t even know where that possessiveness is coming from. Like I’ve always been protective of you, but...if Jez had made a move towards you in that car I would have fucking fought him.”

Sascha took Mischa’s face in both of his hands, fluttered his thumbs carefully over his cheekbones, tender. 

“I know this is terrifying,” he said, gentle. “I get it, because it is, I know. But if I could explain to you how that makes me _feel_ , to know that you’re that territorial over me.”

Mischa swallowed. 

“Try.”

Sascha whooshed a breath out through his front teeth, shrugged his shoulders, shy. “My god, Meesh. It’s the best feeling. When I saw your face in the car after he said something...it was like my blood was singing.” 

Mischa fought himself, lost, and the resultant smile that cracked open across his face was enormous. “It feels like that all the time, when I’m with you.”

“Same for me,” breathed Sascha, and Mischa kissed him before he spoke again, sweet. “But this was more intense. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“This is so fucked up, Sash,” said Mischa, but he kept kissing him, again and again until Sascha _mmmm_ ed with delight. “So fucked up, because I love to hear you say that. I want you happy all the time. I want to take care of you.”

“I’m happy when I’m with you,” said Sascha, fiercely, and he roped his arms around Mischa’s neck and dragged him in and rubbed their foreheads together again because nuzzling was how they got closest when Mischa was not inside of him. “I love you, Mischa.”

“I love you too, Sascha,” said Mischa quietly, and they both knew what the other was saying but still it was off-limits to speak about it aloud, because Mischa was still terrified and Sascha knew instinctively where he was not allowed to go, not yet.

Soft, unhurried, they kissed until the water pressure screamed, then Sascha jumped apart from Mischa like he’d been scalded. “Jez is out,” he said, breathless, scrabbling for the shower door. “He can’t catch me in your room. He’s gonna start smelling us, Meesh, fucking scrub.”

In a senseless, helpless sort of way, Mischa laughed; because sometimes he had to laugh to keep from crying. “Fuck. Go.” He smacked Sascha’s ass, once, and Sascha flipped him off playfully before he tore out of the room, wiping his feet carefully on the mat so he’d leave no telltale wet footprints across the hall. In less than fifteen seconds he’d locked himself in his own bathroom and just to bring himself back to earth he turned the water to a temperature so heated it gave him goosebumps.

He shut his eyes, smiled against the relentless stream. Mischa was right, it was fucked up, all of it. But at least now he knew where his brother stood, and it was staunchly at his side.

*

They went for dinner but Sascha knew that Ivan would expect excellence the following day so he advised scaling back, at least for himself and Mischa. Jez dragged them to a waterfront bar for one drink after they ate but even he had to concede that going hard two nights in a row the day Ivan arrived would not be wise.

When he did get to the rental house, jet-lagged and grumpy and plane-rumpled past ten pm, he offered perfunctory greetings and swore a lot about the trip in his amusing English before bidding them all goodnight and stomping up the stairs to his room. Jez, Mischa, and Sascha all watched him go with barely contained smiles on their faces; once they heard his door shut they only had to swap brief glances before they all cracked up. Ivan was notorious for two things: being one of the most hardcore but effective coaches on tour, and his absolute loathing of delayed travel.

“Maybe he’ll go easy on us tomorrow,” said Mischa doubtfully.

“He absolutely won’t,” said Sascha with grim confidence. “The season has officially begun.”

“And on that note,” said Jez, hauling himself off the couch, “I’m going to go Netflix and chill myself to sleep. If he’s going hard with you guys he’s gonna expect me to be up before the court session to get you in the gym.”

The look on his face was so forlorn that Mischa and Sascha both laughed aloud; Sascha checked his watch.

“Jez, it’s like ten thirty.”

“And what exactly do you mean by Netflix and chill yourself to sleep?” Mischa was grinning like a thief.

“It means whatever you think it means,” said Jez, and winked. “Sleep well, Zverevs. Watch those bruises tomorrow, Sash, Ivan sees everything.” 

“He’s like my fucking dad,” muttered Sascha. “Thanks, though. Get some sleep.”

“And you two. You’re the ones who will actually be feeling the heat,” said Jez, and he waved at them before turning to trudge up the stairs. As soon as he’d disappeared Sascha slunk immediately into Mischa’s lap, curling into him like a cat, cozy; Mischa kissed him languorously on the mouth, ran his hands the length of his brother’s lean sides.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” said Sascha, licking along his mouth, smiling when Mischa breathed out through his nostrils. “You want to go to bed?”

“We should,” said Mischa, slipping his hand up Sascha’s t-shirt to stroke over his abdomen. “And we should not get into the habit of doing this on the couch.”

“Fuck it, no one’s here,” said Sascha, and then from his pocket his phone screamed and they both jumped five feet into the air. When they’d recovered enough to laugh Sascha eyed his screen: it was Marcelo, asking to FaceTime. When Sascha accepted the call Marcelo took one look at them cuddled around each other and rolled his eyes.

“And you telling me you guys haven’t fucked? Is hilarious joke.” 

“We haven’t,” said Mischa indignantly.

Marcelo merely looked at them with one eyebrow bridged until Sascha laughed out loud from discomfort.

“We haven’t. Really.”

“Uh huh,” said Marcelo, biting at his thumbnail, “okay. Blow jobs count as fucking, you know.”

Both Sascha and Mischa went simultaneously beet-red; Marcelo clucked and pointed one finger at the camera and the look on his face was pure complacency.

“Shut the fuck up, Marcelo,” said Sascha, but he was grinning; couldn’t help it.

“Didn’t say a word,” said Marcelo. “Mischa, you taking care of him? He better, eating?”

“Yes,” said Mischa. “He ate five times today. He’s doing well.”

Instinctively he nuzzled into the side of Sascha’s face; Sascha beamed and slid a hand up Mischa’s cheek. Marcelo rolled his eyes so sharply skyward they went all-white.

“Get a room.” 

“We have two to choose from,” said Sascha jovially, “until Mum and Dad get here.” 

“Good luck with that,” said Marcelo. “Ivan is there?”

“Yes.”

“He’s Beta, right?” 

“Yeah,” said Mischa, “somehow.” 

“Right. And Jez?”

“He’s here. He’s an Alpha. Loves to talk about it, too,” said Sascha, and Mischa curled his lip.

“Be careful,” said Marcelo, sharp. “You guys fucking around without washing sheets or showering, pretty soon he can smell it. Sash will be strong when he sweat so close after heat. Watch out.”

“I know,” said Sascha, “he could smell me today when I took my shirt off after the gym. I thought Mischa was gonna have an aneurysm.”

Mischa’s eyes went dark. “I didn’t like how his head turned for you.”

Marcelo whistled through his teeth. “Down, boy.”

“I can’t help it,” muttered Mischa, and his cheeks went an even darker shade of maroon. Marcelo shook his head.

“You guys so fucking bonded it’s not even funny.”

“His bloodwork isn’t back yet,” said Mischa automatically, and both Marcelo and Sascha heard the mild jag of fear in his voice.

“Yeah, well, get used to what the answer will be,” said Marcelo. “You let me know when you get it, okay? You guys need anything?”

“We’re okay,” said Sascha softly. He was watching Mischa’s face. “When are you coming?”

“Day before New Year’s,” said Marcelo. “Anything new I should know about before I come?”

“Well, uh,” said Sascha, uncomfortable. “Jez knows I had a new Alpha. He saw my bruises.”

“Uh huh. What he say?” 

“He was curious. He’s asking a lot of questions,” said Mischa, grim. “He knows not to talk about it in front of our parents.”

“He’ll stick to it,” said Sascha. “He knows how shitty Dad can be about this stuff.”

“You think he suspects?”

Sascha and Mischa exchanged a glance.

“We don’t know,” said Sascha. “He asked Mischa if he could smell me in the car when I took my shirt off, but he just seemed legitimately curious. He hasn’t said anything about it since.”

“I used to be curious, too,” said Marcelo ruefully. “Look at me now.”

“You know more than you could ever have wanted to know, and more,” said Sascha, shrugging guiltily, and all three of them warred with themselves against laughter and lost.

That night Mischa went to bed with Sascha and set an alarm for two am so he could transfer back to his own room lest anyone should feel the need to check in on them before normal daytime hours. When they fell asleep despite their late lie-in it was quick; it was the most comfortable thing in the world to wrap around each other under piles of blankets and they could not fight the residual exhaustion that set in. When Sascha awoke at five, limbs thrown messily everywhere, the sheets cold beside him, he couldn’t help but feel savagely bereft.

*

Both Sascha and Marcelo had been absolutely correct regarding their assessment of Ivan: he was no less hardcore for his lengthy day of travel, and he was as observant as an eagle. At exactly six fifteen he was knocking on all of their doors (not even Jez was safe) and once he’d gathered his housemates around the breakfast table he squinted at Sascha and said bluntly,

“You look thin. Put an extra spoonful of peanut butter on your bagel.”

“You do look a bit skinny, Sash,” said Jez blearily, from where he was standing next to the Keurig wishing-hoping-willing it to pour faster. “We’ll work on it.” 

“Wow, guys,” said Sascha, grumpily. “Give me until at least seven thirty before you murder my self confidence, would you?”

“Your self confidence isn’t going anywhere, calm down,” said Mischa, roughing his brother’s sleep-ruined hair; instantly the bad attitude melted from Sascha’s spine. “Eat your damn peanut butter, it won’t kill you, skeletor."

“ _Verpiss dich_ ,” said Sascha in German, to which Mischa replied cheerily in the same,

“Fuck me yourself.”

Neither Ivan nor Jez spoke German but they got the gist; Ivan shook his head at them as though they’d been particularly naughty children and Jez snorted into his freshly filled mug of coffee.

“Gentlemen, please. This is not grade school.”

“It’s always grade school here,” said Sascha, and Mischa grinned around a mouthful of pancakes.

The gym was quick that morning because Ivan wanted either a set or a match, whichever took the longest. Sascha and Mischa walked on court with mild levels of dread and as they ran laps to get their footwork going Mischa said tentatively,

“I can scale back if you want...”

“This is humiliating,” said Sascha, and he was red in the face. “If you weren’t my brother everyone would suspect by now. I have to bring it up to Grand Slam levels to beat you right now.” 

“Alpha privilege,” said Mischa automatically, and Sascha looked sideways at him.

“Thought you couldn’t be sure until my bloodwork came back.”

Mischa spluttered but Sascha was grinning. “I didn’t mean - I - shut the fuck up.”

“You shut up,” said Sascha habitually, and Mischa had to laugh; whatever they were now, they would always be brothers first.

“Sash,” he said, “really. I can’t keep playing you this close. You’re better than me and everyone knows it.” 

“I’m not,” said Sascha, “and I’ve been sick. Ivan and Jez already think I look thin; they’re going to attribute any loss of form today to that. We’re playing that card for as long as we can. Let’s go.”

And so, as there was nothing else they _could_ do, they went. Because he was becoming accustomed to it by now Sascha was slightly more prepared for Mischa’s impeccable form – he had spent a lifetime learning how to counter his brother on his best days. Still, the set went long, and as was inevitable from the start, they reached a tiebreak. Ivan and Jez watched stoically from the side of the court and they were so silent, so hawkish, that eventually Sascha began to worry.

Before they started the tiebreak Mischa went to the net, called Sascha up to speak for a moment. 

“They’re quiet,” he said in German. “Very quiet.” 

“I don’t like it,” said Sascha, keeping his face neutral so their conversation could pass as less than suspicious. “But Ivan hasn’t seen me hit in almost a month. He’s probably just observing, right?”

“Right,” said Mischa. His eyes were wary and Sascha tugged nervously at the collar of his shirt before turning to stride back to the baseline.

Their score was close, close, close but Mischa was always one half-step ahead and that was all it took for him to fairly dominate any extended rallies. In frustration Sascha resorted to throwing that slight extra body weight behind his serve, sharp snap of the wrist just before he followed through, and even clear Alpha dominance couldn’t help Mischa when Sascha launched himself forward into the court like that. Talent was still talent and despite his recent weakness Sascha was feeling strong, probably, he thought, because of Mischa’s proximity, his attentiveness. By force of serve and sheer willpower he brought it to 5–4 in the tiebreak and he was trying not to be a brat about what was happening but he was _frustrated_ , so frustrated, he’d known Mischa’s game inside and out since before he’d even faced off with him the first time because Alex had made him Sascha’s training model – where he felt he had failed with his eldest son, he paid extra attention to in his youngest. Sascha had studied Mischa’s _rights_ and he’d studied his _wrongs_ and he could usually predict his elder brother’s next move with more clarity than he could predict his own thought but since his heat – since even right _before_ his heat – that simply hadn’t been the case. 

Now he stood toeing the ad side baseline with his fingers lodged in his strings, muttering to himself in a fierce hodgepodge of Russian and German, waiting. His pride would not permit him to ask Mischa to tone it down but he hoped his brother understood all the same that by not intentionally letting a few balls fly he was heavily increasing their chances of being caught out.

Mischa won 8-6. At the net Sascha gripped his brother’s hand and met his grim gaze and tried not to think about what would happen if they drew each other in a tournament draw.

As he had predicted Ivan was more or less dismissive, congratulatory of Mischa’s play but emphatic about the need to get Sascha back to proper competitive weight, like he was a boxer, a gymnast. It was Jez that watched them a little more closely, Jez whose congratulations were peppered with slight, slight hesitation, and when Sascha stood up from shoving his racquets back in his bag he caught Jez’s gaze on his collarbone, seeking his bruises. With a sharp snap of fear he realized that some of them had, instead of diminishing, bloomed afresh from Mischa’s teeth digging afresh into his skin; automatically his eyes found Jez’s and they gazed without emotion at each other for a second before Jez’s expression wiped and he turned away to speak to Ivan.

Dread like a scourge raced through Sascha’s sternum but he knew there was nothing that he could say, nothing that he could do, without giving himself away. His only hope was to throw up blind pleas to whatever entity might be eavesdropping that Jez’s voice of reason would overpower any lingering doubts in his mind. After all, he reasoned, who would ever suspect that two brothers would do what he and Mischa were doing?

*

“Jez was looking at us weird,” said Mischa, low, as they stood together over the locker room sinks.

Sascha was hurling water calmly on his face and he took his time shutting off the sink, patted his skin dry with a hand towel before he turned to look Mischa in the eye.

“I know.”

“What do you think that means?”

“I don’t know, Meesh,” said Sascha, but they both did, and all of a sudden it was all so crushingly exhausting he wanted to collapse down onto the floor and drop his head in his hands. “I don’t know if Jez is bright enough to put together my bruises with your sudden ability to completely dominate me on the court. But to be honest – I mean, if you weren’t my brother, you know – he’d already have called us out.”

Mischa groaned. “Don’t say that.”

“Sorry.” Sascha shrugged. “But I don’t know how we aren’t obvious to everyone we come across. The air changes when we’re together.”

“Like Lukasz and Marcelo,” said Mischa. His eyes were guarded, wild; Sascha scented the fear on his blood like it was dinner cooking in the oven. In the mirror their eyes locked and Sascha nodded.

“Exactly.”

Mischa puffed out a slow, steadying breath.

“We can’t talk about this now. If we take too long Ivan will break this door down. Let’s go.”

Sascha slung his bag over his shoulder, followed Mischa out into the empty hall, anxiety-glow at his eyes. It was dizzying trying to keep so many important conversations on hold when they were always on the verge of spilling from his chest.

The next two days were a smudged whirlwind, pieces of sharp relief and that constant thrum of underlying terror all at once. Without telling Sascha what he planned to do Mischa kept his newfound aptitude in check on court the next day and Sascha won their practice set 7-5; at the net Sascha threw him a long, long, calculating look but Mischa avoided as much emotional betrayal as he could by sliding barriers over his eyes. He knew Sascha wouldn’t have a chance to question him until that night, when they were certain they wouldn’t be overheard. Sure enough, 

“I know you backed off,” said Sascha in bed that evening, voice soft, as he lay on Mischa’s chest tracing the outlines of his poking ribcage. “You didn’t have to.”

“I did, though,” said Mischa powerlessly, and kissed the top of his head.

*

By the time Alex and Irina arrived - just in time for the holidays, as Irina had promised - Mischa had curbed himself so much that Jez had stopped looking at them strangely, stopped seeking out Sascha’s bruises with his eyes. There were none new as it was, at least none that could be observed by the casual onlooker; Mischa had been careful to place his suckmarks only on the most hidden areas on Sascha’s body. As much as they could they kept physicality limited to the evenings but during the day they couldn’t stop themselves from brushing up against one another, hands on shoulders and hips and arms, because they both needed it and when they didn’t touch everything seemed to be just a little bit harder. Still they didn’t have sex. Sascha knew Mischa had been spooked by Jez’s inquisitiveness and he didn’t push; he would take what he could get, accept it happily, because it was enough to get by.

Nearly.

The visible marks on his throat had all but disappeared; he was back to loose t-shirts on the court, next-to-normal stamina. Jez was pleased with his progress and told Alex so; for this, Alex granted both Sascha and Mischa freedom from hitting until Christmas was over. They spent the holidays eating and drinking and being merry like a normal family, exchanging presents and making dessert and watching nostalgic movies. Average, except Sascha and Mischa stole off whenever they could to touch each other in places they shouldn’t. After everyone else had gone to bed on Christmas Day Mischa plucked a bristle of mistletoe from their tree and cornered Sascha on the porch, held it drunkenly over his head while Sascha clucked and grinned and blushed in delight, and when Mischa had gotten his kiss (cider-sweet and tinged with cinnamon and cognac) they ended up recklessly dry-humping on the settee, Sascha driving his hips furiously down against Mischa’s crotch as they moaned and gasped into each other’s open mouths. They were louder than they should have been and they both knew what danger this kind of open behavior posed but they could not stop.

Marcelo checked in daily. Sascha was as honest with him as he was with Mischa and slowly, slowly the whole of the situation began to seem marginally less strange. The night before Marcelo and Lukasz were due to arrive in Australia – December 30th, New Year’s Eve Eve – Marcelo FaceTimed Sascha with a heavy question.

“Sash,” he said, pressing at his lower lip with his forefinger as he did when he was anxious about something, “I been thinking. You want we should tell Lukasz?”

Sascha’s heartbeat cliffdived, then roared into overdrive, a racing car fresh on the road, black tar tire-tracks squelched out on pavement.

“What? Why?”

“Because,” said Marcelo. “When you find out there is bond. Like, for sure for sure, like, _medical diagnosis_ sure. You gonna have to tell Mischa everything, and it not gonna be easy, and you gonna need allies.”

Sascha swallowed and it felt like a Herculean feat just to breathe.

“Do you think,” he said in a tiny voice, “Lukasz would understand?” 

“Sashy,” said Marcelo, kind, “I know he would. He know how this works. We don’t get to choose, I tell you over and over. When it is thing, it is thing.”

In spite of himself Sascha laughed aloud.

“Profound.”

“I know I am,” said Marcelo airily. “Listen. You think about it, and decide. No pressure. But he will not - how you say - shun you for this.”

After they hung up Sascha stole back into Mischa’s room and climbed into bed beside his slumbering brother, where he lay awake for some time, contemplating his minimal options, uneasy all the way through. At one point in the night Mischa stirred, nuzzled sleepily into Sascha’s side, sighed.

“I love you, Sash.”

“I love you, Mischa,” said Sascha, and his voice was so saturated with emotion that Mischa opened his eyes, smiled, leaned up to kiss him deeply on the mouth.

“Why are you awake?” 

“Fuck if I know,” lied Sascha, and automatically Mischa drew a breath of his brother’s scent, frowned at him.

“You’re anxious. Why?”

Sascha chuckled acidly. “I hate that you can do that now.”

“I could always tell,” said Mischa, soft. “Even before Baros.”

Sascha knew that he was right, but it was different now, felt different everywhere, because now Mischa read him by smell, not just body language, tone of voice. It felt both invasive and warm and he wasn’t sure how to file it away in his brain. “I know you could.”

“Yeah. So what’s wrong?”

“Uh,” said Sascha, and he bit his lip: _we’re bonded and we’ll never be able to break it_ , but his heavy heart wouldn’t let him say it. “Marcelo asked me if we wanted to tell Lukasz.”

Mischa sat up on one elbow, fully alert now. “Yeah? And what did you tell him?”

“I said I didn’t know,” said Sascha. “It’s a lot. But Marcelo said he knew Lukasz would understand, because he knows people can’t help their biology.”

Mischa’s face was impassive but Sascha knew he was all adrenaline. “Why did he ask you this?”

“He wants us to have allies,” said Sascha. “If, you know. We’re bonded. Because we’re going to need them.”

Mischa was quiet for a moment.

“He’s not wrong,” he said, voice as grim as the reaper. “So. If we’re bonded. Do you want to tell him?”

“No,” said Sascha, “I don’t want to tell anyone. I want this to be ours, but it’s too late for that. So I think we should.”

Mischa gave a despondent little smile at that, swiped his forehead across Sascha’s own, kissed him. When Sascha kissed back it was slow and made of meaning. Mischa sighed, breath lingering over Sascha’s bite-ragged mouth.

“If you want to, we will.”

*

When Marcelo and Lukasz arrived mid-afternoon the next day, things became, somehow, a hundred times easier. As Marcelo had said, Alex and Lukasz got along famously; the Pole was excellent at defusing tension and cracking a joke in his broken Russian whenever things seemed as though they might take a downswing, and it was the help that Sascha and Mischa needed. They went hard on the court so they could go harder for holiday festivities later that evening and with two more people in the mix it was easier to avoid showcasing the ease with which Mischa was now seeing Sascha’s every move. Alex and Ivan were jovial, playful even, and the day was going so well that Sascha let himself fall temporarily blind to adversity.

Later he swore to himself – on God, on the universe, on whatever would grant him the discipline – he’d never let that shield down again. In this new world that he and Mischa had created for themselves, there was nothing but vigilance and razor-edge tension, open eyes seeking every potential threat, because it was when they stopped looking that trouble arrived. That day it came in multiple forms.

The first thing:

Evgeniya, who walked into the house with a huge beamy smile in the middle of party preparations and nearly made all of them fall over in shock. Sascha watched murderously as she leapt across the room into Mischa’s arms but when he met Mischa’s eyes he saw only surprise – laced with perhaps a bit of, gratifyingly, horror – and he understood that his brother had had nothing to do with this. It didn’t make the sting even marginally more bearable.

The second thing:

Alex, who disappeared at about six pm announcing that he was going out for a bit and would return with “another surprise” shortly. Sascha, whose mood had already waxed volcanic upon the unexpected appearance of his brother’s wife, threw a look across the room at Marcelo. The Brazilian caught the expression on his face and jerked his head discreetly to the side, signaling Sascha to follow him out of the room. He was only too glad to oblige: Evgeniya and Mischa had disappeared upstairs so she could unpack her things, and his blood felt as though it had gone lemon-sour.

“Lukasz, I’ll be back,” said Marcelo gently as Sascha approached, bending down to kiss his Omega on the mouth, but Sascha shook his head.

“No,” he said, “he can come. Let’s go for a drive. MAMA.”

“ _Solnyshka_ ,” sang Irina back to him, from the kitchen.

“Dad’s bringing her, isn’t he.”

It wasn’t a question; Lukasz glanced inquisitively at Marcelo, but he shook his coal head, held up a finger.

“If he is,” said Irina, walking into the room with her mouth set in a line as she wiped her dough-spattered hands on a kitchen towel, “I don’t know about it. But we all know your father is capable of _abundant_ amounts of stupidity, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Right,” said Sascha, and his voice leaked venom. “We’re going to get alcohol. I don’t think wine is going to be enough. Do you want anything?”

“Absolut,” said Irina, and smiled fiendishly. “A lot of it.”

Sascha, Marcelo, and Lukasz were still grinning for that as they strode out to the car; Sascha had a set to his shoulders that Marcelo knew like a memorized prayer, and he both loved and hated this side of him. When Sascha was riled he was a tornado, a Tasmanian devil, ruthless in his bulldozed path of ruination. Like this, he was careless with his words; like this, he was careless with his curbs and checks.

Like this, he was dangerous to all of them.

“Marcelo, you drive,” he said, when they reached the car. Tossed him the keys, climbed in the back. “I’ll wreck if I talk about this.” 

“Stop being so dramatic,” said Marcelo, rolling his eyes, but he got into the driver’s seat nonetheless. “You not allowed to go fucking crazy tonight, idiot. You remember day after wedding.”

“Yeah, well, I’m stronger now,” said Sascha moodily, picking at the undersides of his thumbnail. “Fuck this.”

“Stronger, my fucking ass,” said Marcelo. “You weak as shit.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Okay,” said Lukasz, looking with great interest between the two of them, “You guys want to tell me what the fuck is going on? You’ve been acting weird all day, all of you, and I get this crazy notion that somebody isn’t telling me something.” 

Marcelo hesitated; Sascha met his eyes in the rearview mirror and nodded.

“Without Mischa?”

“No, it’s fine,” said Sascha. “He knows. He agrees.”

“Babe,” said Marcelo, “you might want drink for this.”

“Then let’s go to the liquor store and get some fucking shots,” said Lukasz. “You guys have been weird since Berlin. What’s going on?”

“So it’s a long story,” said Sascha loudly, “but I’m gonna take you way back anyway, because we have time. Basically, we’re gonna start with the fact that my parents – especially my dad – have no fucking idea how to raise Alpha and Omega children.”

“Okay,” said Lukasz, slowly. The line between his eyes was a deep hollow. “Makes sense. They’re both Betas, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And it’s weird for them to have either an Alpha OR an Omega child, right? So really weird that they had one of each?”

“Apparently it’s extremely weird,” said Sascha, shrugging. “Second thing you need to know: my dad isn’t cool with the fact that I like guys. Like, at all. Supposedly it’s because he really wants grandbabies from his own bloodline, but I don’t really fucking care why he is the way that he is, because it sucks.”

“I kind of got that vibe from him,” said Lukasz. “Not towards me or Marcelo. But he’s very, like, straight Russian dude who grew up in the seventies and eighties.”

Sascha laughed out loud. “That’s Dad. So you know Olya? The Alpha girl who’s been sitting in my box a lot lately?”

“Yeah,” said Lukasz. “The one you and Marcelo talk shit about all the time.”

“Exactly,” said Sascha. They were on the road properly now and he rolled his window down to thrust his arm out into the sticky air, windsurf. In his lap his phone buzzed; it was Mischa, and Sascha knew he had no reason to be upset with him but he was angry about every little thing and he wasn’t sure how to say what he needed to say. He twisted his mouth and looked away.

Lukasz said,

“What about her?”

“Alex is trying to play matchmaker with her and Sash,” said Marcelo. “And he won’t leave him alone. He did same thing with Mischa when he was young. He not leave Mischa alone about _settle down, have kids_. Really annoying about it.”

“So he was weird like this with Mischa too?” Lukasz’s eyes were narrowed to shrewd slits and before Evgeniya had walked through that front door Sascha would have feared his cunning but at that moment there was not a thing in the world that scared him because his entire system was rage. “Are you saying that Mischa is also into guys?” 

“Very good,” said Sascha. “Didn’t find that out for sure until recently, actually. But he is, and his wife is here before she was supposed to be, and now I’m pretty sure Dad is going to the airport to pick up Olya and her family, and I’m so fucking done with it all. He’s going to pawn it off and say they’re visiting him for fun, because he and Mum are friends with her parents, but that’s definitely not what’s happening. They’re scheming to set us up." 

Lukasz sat silently in the front seat, processing for a moment, eyes fixated unseeing on the road as he thought. Marcelo was watching him in a way that made Sascha think that Lukasz was fully capable of arriving at the truth with simply the bare minimum of information he’d been given. Finally Lukasz said,

“First of all, Sash, this is bullshit and I’m sorry you’re dealing with this. Even on top him being basically homophobic and not leaving you alone, there’s no reason for an Alpha to be sniffing around you so soon after your heat, so I don’t know why he’s trying to make this happen so hard right now.”

“It’s because he has no idea,” said Sascha heavily, twisting his fingers through the airstream, “how Alpha and Omega dynamics work.”

“Mmhmm,” said Lukasz, and then, sharply, “but on another note. I’m sensing that you don’t like Mischa’s wife.” 

“No,” said Sascha, ready for it. “She doesn’t make him happy. She’s a Beta and he needs an Omega.”

“And you just got legitimate confirmation that he likes guys,” said Lukasz, turning around in his seat to look Sascha stalwartly in the face. His eyes were crystalline blue, winter blue, cold-heart blue. “How? Did he tell you?”

“Uh,” said Sascha, staunchly avoiding Marcelo’s gaze in the rearview mirror, “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Is he cheating on Evgeniya with a guy?”

Sascha’s couldn’t keep his expression from opening wide, unveiled. “Jesus, Lukasz, you’re sharp.”

Lukasz’s grin was foxlike, devil. “And your parents have no idea about any of it.”

“Not a clue,” said Marcelo cheerfully. “Thank fuck.” 

Lukasz looked between them, obviously waiting for more information; when none was given, he demanded,

“Well, who the hell is it?”

Sascha bit down on his lower lip.

“Uh,” said Marcelo, hedging.

“Fuck off, Marcelo,” said Lukasz, laughing. “You brought me along to tell me about this, yeah? Tell me. It’s not my business to share. I won’t.” 

“Sash,” said Marcelo, and at the end of the name was a clear question. _Are we doing this, are we telling him._

“Yeah, fuck it,” said Sascha. “We don’t have to wait for confirmation for something we already know. I’ll tell you who it is, L. But you’re gonna need a shot first.”

Lukasz’s eyes waxed massive. “Oh, fuck, so you’re telling me I already _know_.”

Sascha chuckled for the situation, for how he was the answer to Lukasz’s question and he was literally sitting before him, speaking to him, made obvious by the bruises Mischa had left hidden all over his skin, if only they could be seen. “Yeah, you do.”

Marcelo snorted. “You _really_ do.”

Lukasz cut his gaze to the side, let his mouth drop slightly open, confused and interested at once. “Okay...”

“Trust me, love,” said Marcelo, and clamped one of his massive hands around Lukasz’s lean thigh. “You really want alcohol for this.”

So they made it to the liquor store without revealing any bone-deep secrets, Sascha picking ruthlessly at his fingernails while he kept himself from messaging Mischa back, because he couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t even _look_ at what his brother was saying to him now. He was not equipped for the way he’d felt watching Evgeniya and Mischa troop up the stairs together, and when Mischa had looked helplessly back at him he’d set his jaw and turned away. _Marriage means nothing next to a bond_ , Karthy had said, and yet here they were.

Marcelo, as usual, read his mood like a newspaper headline and cornered him in the beer fridge.

“You’re sure you want to do this now,” he said, low. “Without Mischa here to explain his part too.”

“Yes,” said Sascha, stubbornly. “His wife is here. He’s busy.”

“Sascha.” Marcelo groaned, let his head fall back, pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. “ _Santa Maria, madre de Dios_. You cannot be mad at him for this. He did not know she coming. He just as surprised as you.”

Sascha felt furious tears stinging his eyes, bit fiercely at the inside of his cheek to quell them. “I am mad. I _am_ mad at him, Marcelo. We’re bonded and he knows it and he’s not admitting it and it _hurts_.”

“Sash, I know,” said Marcelo gently. “ _Cariño_ , I know. It’s okay. He scared and think he do terrible thing and part of him still think he hurt you or coerce you. You gotta give him a break.”

“I just,” said Sascha, all misery, “I want him. All of him. I’m past the fact that we’re brothers, you know? He’s my fucking soul mate and I’ve known it forever. I want him to acknowledge it.”

He looked down at his phone, swiped so he could see Mischa’s message. When he read what it said his heart scraped.

_Sash, please don’t be mad at me. I didn’t know she was coming and I don’t want her here. I want more time with you. I want ALL the time with you._

Then,

_Please come back so I can hug you._

Sascha felt like he was going insane: his mood had not been stable since before Baros and he was ill from the sharp, unexpected drops, elevations. In total vexation he sighed and Marcelo touched his shoulder.

“You should text him back.” 

“I know. Fuck, I know. We should have brought him along. I’m calling him.” Sascha dialed Mischa’s number; his was the only one he had memorized, and Mischa picked up on the first ring.

“ _Liebling, tut mir leid, wo bist du?”_

“Liquor store,” said Sascha in the same language, because Lukasz could speak decent enough Russian to get the gist and he wasn’t about to risk a thing in case the Pole walked in on them. “Mischa, I hate this. I don’t want her around you, it feels like I’m dying. And Dad’s bringing Olya, you know he is.”

“She’s already here,” said Mischa, savagely. “They just got back. I’m not - Sash, I don’t think I can - control myself if she touches you.”

In spite of everything Sascha felt his stomach go hot. “Then don’t.”

“I can’t go crazy like that in front of everyone,” hissed Mischa. “It would be a dead giveaway, everyone would know. I’m gonna need - help.” 

“Mischa, we need to tell Lukasz,” said Sascha firmly. “Today. He already thinks we’re all acting weird. He called me and Marcelo out in the car.”

“I know we should tell him,” said Mischa. His voice was laden with emotion. “Can you come back, please? As soon as possible? I know you’re hurt and I need to be near you so I can keep an eye on you.”

“Yes,” said Sascha, his heart slowly defrosting for the intensity of Mischa’s words, for how fervent he was, how worried. “Do you want me to wait, to tell him? We’ll make some shit up for everyone else, come out to the car when we get there. Just say you need to go to the store.” 

“Yes. I will,” said Mischa, even though he knew that by doing this they were treading further and further into dangerous territory. “Come get me. Come now.” 

So they went. Lukasz bought a plethora of airplane shots and downed two of them right in a row, let the alcohol settle while they drove back to the house. Marcelo told him that Mischa wanted to be around to explain himself while Sascha smirked silent and knowing into his knuckles in the backseat and when they pulled up to the house Mischa was outside waiting; as soon as he saw the car he took off like a hunting cheetah, leapt into the backseat next to Sascha. 

“Hey,” he said, breathless, wild at the eye, and Sascha took a massive breath of him, all fear and nerves and worry for Sascha. It was like taking a Xanax; he relaxed immediately. “Let’s go.” 

“Alright,” said Lukasz, as Marcelo took off, “I took two shots of tequila for this. Lay it on me.”

Mischa and Sascha exchanged a glance. Mischa said,

“How much do you know?”

“That your dad is kind of homophobic and you like dudes,” said Lukasz, bluntly. “And you’re cheating on your wife with one. Oh, and I apparently know him.”

Mischa looked between Sascha and Marcelo and, completely unexpectedly, laughed out loud.

“You don’t mince words.”

“Can’t afford to,” said Lukasz, breezily, in Russian. “Life is short. So spill.”

“Mmmmm,” said Marcelo, before Mischa could even take a breath to speak. “So I think I preface this by saying something about Berlin.”

Sascha’s head snapped up; subconsciously he’d understood that Marcelo had told Lukasz that he’d gotten Sascha through his heat as usual this year, but though he hadn’t thought deeply about it until now, it made sense. Their little ruse wouldn’t have worked without Marcelo letting Lukasz assume that proceedings had continued as normal.

“Say it,” said Lukasz, quite calmly.

“So,” said Marcelo, “I didn’t go to Berlin to get Sash through his heat.”

Lukasz’s expression did not change.

“You didn’t?”

“No,” said Marcelo, measured, cautious. “I go as moral support. I go to be with my friend during tough time.”

“Okay. Sascha,” said Lukasz, clearly processing at the speed of light, “have you not had your heat, then? Did you delay it?”

“No,” said Sascha, through hard-clamped teeth. “I had it.”

“But you didn’t get through it with Marcelo?”

“I didn’t, no,” said Sascha quietly. He had to remind himself to blink, to breathe, to be normal. “I had it - before he could get to me.”

“Before he could – ” began Lukasz, but he stopped like he’d been cut off and his eyes went dark. “Wait. What does this have to do with Mischa’s mystery lover?”

Once more, Mischa and Sascha swapped a glance; Mischa saw a question in Sascha’s eyes and answered it with a single nod. Sascha took a breath.

“Lukasz, I had my heat in Baros,” he said steadily. “The storm stranded us and I didn’t bring extra meds and I couldn’t make it off the island.”

“But you were with Mischa in Baros,” said Lukasz, blanking. “There was no one else with you guys, right?” 

Sascha gave a tiny, sad smile, shook his head once.

“It was just us.”

Lukasz looked from Mischa to Sascha and back again and the second it clicked they both saw it slide across his face like a frame on a projector.

“Sash,” he said. “Show me your throat. Right now.”

Sascha’s responsive smirk was slow and grim and impressed. 

“There’s nothing to see anymore, not really,” he said. “Not there. But I’ll do you one better.”

And in one quick smooth motion he pulled his shirt over his unruly head.

Below the collarbone, he was still splotched sporadically with fresh bruises. The extent of the damage was not nearly as bad as it had been immediately post-heat, but it was clear that an extremely attentive Alpha had been tending to him. Near the lower left side of his throat gleamed the shiny skin of a new scar and when Lukasz leaned in close to inspect he could see that it formed the shape of a particularly deep bite mark. Automatically his hand flew up to touch just above his own collarbone, where Marcelo had placed their bondbite many years before.

He chewed on his lower lip, swallowed before he spoke.

“Where else?”

“Inner thighs,” said Sascha. “Hipbones.”

“You’re telling me right now,” said Lukasz, with astonishing tranquility, “that there was no Alpha on that island but Mischa while you were in heat.”

“Yeah,” said Mischa. “It was just me. We tried to find someone else, but everyone was already gone. Only the island staff was left.”

“So naturally,” continued Lukasz, “you’re the Alpha who got him through it.”

“Yes,” said Sascha. “I asked him to. He didn’t want to. He tried so hard to leave me alone.” 

“I wouldn’t say I didn’t want to,” said Mischa, and he leaned over and nuzzled into the side of Sascha’s throat. Sascha felt his chest go abruptly, wholly warm: by displaying affection like this, Mischa was telling him that he didn’t care that Lukasz was watching. He slid one hand up around the back of Mischa’s head to braid fingers in his curls; Mischa closed his eyes and dropped his head on Sascha’s shoulder and they looked up at Lukasz at the same time, open-eyed, vulnerable.

“I needed him,” said Sascha helplessly. “He was there, and he saved my season. And that’s all we meant to do, I swear to God. It’s just that there’s always been this...thing with us, and we took it further than we meant to.”

Lukasz’s face was inscrutable. 

“What do you mean a _thing_?”

After that there was nothing for it but to talk; they had chosen to tell him, so he deserved the entirety of the truth. They took it in turns to describe how Mischa had been knocked out by Sascha’s primary heat scent, how since then Alex had worked hard to keep them at arm’s length from each other, how they’d always been particularly attuned to one another’s pheromones. How Mischa had never been fully committed to Evgeniya, but felt pressured to tie the knot with her anyway, because it kept Alex from breathing down his neck. How Sascha had left his extra medication at home with the subconscious knowledge of what might happen and chosen to take that chance. By the time they were finished they were half an hour from the house and Lukasz looked as though he’d just been exposed to the secrets of the galaxy.

“I think,” he said at last, “you’re both feeling guilty as hell about this, yeah?”

“Yes,” said Mischa, immediately. “He’s been my responsibility since he was born. This is my fault.”

“If you say that shit to me one more time – ” began Sascha on a roar, but Lukasz stopped him.

“Both of you shut up,” he said. “It’s no one’s fault. It’s literally biology. You’re describing basically what Marcelo and me have, just a little more complicated. You think we chose to go mad for each other? No way.”

“Excuse me, asshole,” said Marcelo, and Lukasz popped over and kissed him on the mouth.

“I love you, idiot. But even you have said that neither of us would have thought to choose the other before it happened.” He smiled, chucked Marcelo under the chin. “We were blind, that’s all. Mischa, Sascha. I have first cousins who have a soul bond, two girls. They couldn’t help it, same as me and Marcelo, same as you guys. Because you’re bonded, yeah?”

“We don’t know,” said Sascha automatically. “We’re waiting for my bloodwork to come back.”

“Okay, yeah, sure. But you don’t need it. You’re bonded,” said Lukasz. He reached over and brushed Sascha’s scar with a fingertip. “That’s the mark, right there. Look at mine." 

He pulled his collar down, pressed his index finger to his own bondbite. Mischa caught his breath for it, for how similar it was to the mark shining on Sascha’s throat.

“Trust me, Sash,” said Lukasz, softly. “All bonded Omegas have one of these. Your Alpha gets near that point on your body, and it happens. There, and deep inner thighs.” 

Sascha was frozen; beside him he could feel Mischa quivering. He was fighting it, and it was scary to understand that for once they were not one hundred percent mentally on the same page. After a moment Sascha took a breath so he could speak ( _I know we’re bonded, I know_ ) but Mischa was right there and he couldn’t say it.

“I know it looks bad.”

“It’s not about good or bad,” said Lukasz, and in the mirror Sascha caught Marcelo’s gentle smile. “It’s about what is. It happened. You can’t change it. I was with my cousins for the whole aftermath, and I still am. I’m with you guys, too.”

“I tell you he gonna be chill,” said Marcelo primly, and both Sascha and Mischa gave shaky laughs. Mischa groaned, fell sideways into the door.

“Mum and Dad will end both of our lives if they find out about this.”

“So they won’t find out,” said Lukasz simply. “You can keep it from them if you try hard enough.”

Sascha said, “Did your cousins keep it from their parents?” But before Lukasz could answer Mischa sat up, braceleted a clammy hand around Sascha’s wrist.

“This happened to your cousins,” he said slowly. “As in, like - Jesus, this is so cringey - an incestuous attraction. This has happened to other people besides us.”

“Yes,” said Lukasz gently. “It‘s not just you.”

“There more out there, I am sure,” said Marcelo. He was driving with one knee tucked up against the door beside him and he shifted to glance back at them, once, briefly. “You not need to worry about being alone. Cause you aren’t. You have us.”

“Thank you,” said Mischa, and his voice was shattered; Sascha’s heart gripped for it. “You guys don’t understand what it means to us.”

“We do,” said Lukasz, and he grinned. “I’m not mad about it at all. I mean, it’s a little unorthodox, but how could I complain when I get Marcelo all to myself again?” 

Marcelo snorted but reached over, looped his fingers through Lukasz’s own. “Knew you’d say that.”

“He’s not wrong,” said Sascha without thinking. “Sharing Mischa with Evgeniya is impossible, and she’s not even an Omega." 

Mischa’s face flourished warm cardinal red; Marcelo and Lukasz exchanged an amused glance.

“The difference is Marcelo has my permission,” said Lukasz, and his voice was easy, lazy. “Mischa doesn’t have yours.”

“He’ll never have mine,” said Sascha, poking, testing, tongue between his teeth, and Mischa groaned out loud again and shoved him. This turned very quickly into a frantic laughing grapple and then before Sascha knew it Mischa was kissing him, mouth wet and firm against his own, and just as rapidly as it had settled the tension at the base of his spine dissipated.

“Babe,” said Marcelo cheerfully, to Lukasz, “which circle of hell I go to if I say they cute?”

“You’re a moron, Marcelo,” said Lukasz, tremendous, exasperated affection in his voice, and he leaned over to kiss him sideways on the lips.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” said Sascha snarkily against Mischa’s mouth. “No matter what, you’ll still be looking down on us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good thing Lukasz is cool, cause I'm willing to BET that there are a lot of people who won't be. Promise there's a reason Alex is an idiot and invited Olya, and it's a good one. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me through the long delays, y'all. You mean the world to me. <3


End file.
